For Love, For the Mad Queen
by MissyMaestro
Summary: Jorah Mormont survived the Battle of Winterfell - barely. He awakes to the reality that Daenerys Targaryen's gentle heart has been shattered and the terror he always feared has come to pass.
1. Chapter 1

It was devastatingly quiet at Winterfell.

Sansa stood on the wall and looked into the courtyard. Not half the commotion as usual. That made sense. Half of their people had died and burned on pyres.

Outside the walls there was even less happening. Death left a lingering chill there where no creature wanted to set foot. Charred dirt marked where dragonfire kissed the earth and all in its path. Cinder and charred pieces of gods knew what littered the ground. Not even the wolves wanted any part in scavenging, if the wolves had made it at all.

A speck of black caught Sansa's eye. It was a lone raven, flapping urgently toward her across the endless grey sky.  
"Dark wings, dark words," Sansa muttered as the bird landed on the rampart and hopped about, urgently squawking and demanding she loose the note from its leg.

Sansa held the scroll in her fingers for a moment before unfurling it. The words therein would change her life drastically in some unknown way. Perhaps the war was over and Cersei was demanding she travel south to bend the knee and surrender the North. Or maybe Jon was writing to say Daenerys had conquered and won the hearts of the people. Maybe the Night King had sailed an army south. It was hard to tell anymore. Dragons, dead men, Lannisters. Her brother was a prince. Her other brother was the Three Eyed Raven. Her sister was a Faceless Man. Truly anything could happen.

With one last breath to steel herself, she rolled the parchment out, revealing black ink. The script was sloppy and hurried but familiar. Jon's. That was a good sign. He was alive. Sansa excitedly read on. Relief only settled her for a moment. The messy letters spelled out words that stole her breath - a horror she'd never dared imagine. She prided herself on being more conniving than Littlefinger, more cunning than Cersei. But this was something else. She felt like a little bird all over again, an innocent child being exposed to the true nature of the world for the first time.

Daenerys Targaryen took King's Landing and burned everyone inside alive.

* * *

Samwell Tarly, Winterfell's new maester, beamed as another soldier walked out of the infirmary. The poor man should have been dead. Someone dragged him in in the aftermath of the Battle of Winterfell and left him with the other wounded. Many of them died. Not this one. Sam set the broken bones in the arm and fixed the ruptured veins and muscles. Sure, the soldier wouldn't be swinging a sword any time soon, but the blood was staying inside his body instead of pumping onto the floor and Sam counted that was a major victory. They needed those these days.

Now only a few remained in his care. One young boy with a concussion was still drifting in and out of sleep, but finally out of danger. The sleep would do him good. Another commoner woman had an infection in a bite on her neck. She could likely heal at home, but Sam didn't want the wound out of his sight for more than an hour at a time. The final was a worse case, and personal. Ser Jorah Mormont lie grievously wounded, pale, and still clinging to life. He'd been run through, hacked at, and boasted more stab wounds than Jon Snow had. But Samwell Tarly would not let Lord Commander Mormont's son die. He kept him alive against the odds once and he'd do it again. How many times had his Black Brothers saved _his _life? Sam owed the men of the Watch a great debt. Besides, Ser Jorah was a good man.

His treatment had been experimental since the moment someone flung him onto Sam's operation table. The dragon queen had burst in, covered in soot and muck and what he assumed was Jorah's blood while Sam was placing a needle in his own arm. How she'd watched in surprise as the maroon liquid flowed from his arm, through the tube and into Jorah. Sam tried to babble an explanation, but she simply shook her head, thanked him, and left. That was a few days ago.  
Since then she'd gone off to the war and Ser Jorah remained here, stitches holding his body together and Sam's blood pumping in his veins.

On the bedside table rested the Tarly family sword, Valyrian steel. Sam touched the hilt. It was still bloodstained. He wet a cloth and wiped it clean, carefully polishing the blade until it shined. How many lives had it taken during the battle? How many in the hands of his father? How many in his father before him? Sam shuddered. Men like Ser Jorah needed swords to keep innocent people safe. Men like _him_ needed books and knowledge so they could sew the brave men back up.

On the bed Jorah drew a deep breath.

"Good!" Sam cheered softly. "That's good, Ser Jorah! Keep doing that," he told the knight lightly, "because I need you to wake up soon. I don't know what to do if you don't."

* * *

Ser Brienne's mouth moved wordlessly.

"No one was spared," Sansa said. "I'm sorry." And she meant it. There were so few good people in the world, and even fewer in the history of her life. Ser Brienne was one of them. She didn't deserve the sorrow and heartbreak rendered onto her.

Jon's note gave a brief list of who was accounted for. Jaime Lannister wasn't one of them. She didn't need to say that aloud, though. Brienne understood.

The knight shook her head and gave a mighty sniff. She wouldn't allow the tears to fall. Not a single tear more for a Lannister. "What would you have us do, my lady? The Mad Queen may fly north. We can drive the people back into the crypts, whether they want to go willingly or not."

Sansa stared into the fire in her hearth. The more time passed, the further she felt from a plan of action. "I don't know what she'll do. Jon said he'd put things right." She sneered and threw the note into the flames. Anger roiled up from her gut. "We _told _him not to trust her! How can you right the deaths of a million innocent people?" She spun and faced down Brienne. "How do you reason with insanity? Jon thinks he can talk sense into her, but he doesn't _know_ her."

Brienne looked up. "There's someone here who does."

* * *

Chore time was the perfect time to practice more reading.

Gilly hummed as she moved about the infirmary, restocking potions and folding freshly cleaned bandages. She was thrilled to have work again, even though Sam was loath to let her do it what with Little Sam and the new babe growing in her belly. But he was in a good mood. This morning another patient was discharged and now there was just the old knight, too stubborn to die. So Gilly moved among the salves and ointments, happily sounding out the words and writing down what she needed to fetch more of.

"Wormwood. Aloe. Milk of the Poppy."

She came across an unlabeled jar of red medicine. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed it. A putrid odor stung her throat. Coughing violently, she slammed the lid shut and made a mental note to ask Sam what it was.

Carefully avoiding the red ointment, Gilly collected a few other salves and fresh bandages and set them at the knight's bedside. Soon Sam would be in to clean his wounds and freshen up the dressings. She gingerly touched one of the bandages on the knight's forehead. It wasn't soiled as much as it had been in days past. Surely a sign of healing. Gilly desperately wanted to learn how to help more. Hoping for a lesson, she sat on the foot of the bed and waited for the maester, humming and reading words on the chart on the knight's bed.

"My mother used to sing that song."

The voice startled her so badly she jumped from the bed, upsetting the notes and dragging a sheet with her. A scream rose in her throat but she strangled it back.

"You're awake?" she gawked at the knight.

His eyes were open a sliver and his lips were parted. "Where is she?" His voice was gruff and soft.

"Hold on," Gilly panted, her heart hammering in her ears and throat. "I'll get the maester. Stay there. Don't move. You're hurt."

* * *

Sansa didn't dare try to write Jon back. She wouldn't risk reminding Daenerys that the North was undefended. Daenerys had little love for the north and even less for the Lady of Winterfell. That much was clear. Still, Sansa hoped more news would come her way. Perhaps Tyrion would send an update. Surely someone would be left alive to let her know if the dragon was flying north.

A soft knock at the door broke the dark thoughts. Sam Tarly looked in. "You called?"

His small smile was enough to lighten the gloom. Sansa liked the man since he first arrived at Winterfell. It wasn't often she felt inane trust for someone. When she did, she didn't doubt it. "Thanks for coming," she said. "Jon sent a raven."  
Sam sat quietly as Sansa recited Jon's words. Though she burned the note, the words were burned in her mind. Burned like King's Landing. Had the horror truly set in for her yet? She wasn't sure.

When she was done, Sam looked thoughtfully out the window. "So Jon will do something. Jon will be king. That's good."

Sansa stared at him in disbelief. "Jon's the one who let this happen in the first place."

Sam blinked in surprise. "He didn't want to be king. That's a lot to ask of someone who was raised a bastard and then vowed to wear no crowns."

"He was King in the North." Sansa sighed and sat back in her chair. "I almost wish Littlefinger was here. He'd have a dozen plans already thought out. He'd know what to do no matter what happened next."

"I hear he wasn't a very good man," Sam replied. "I trust that you'll know the right thing to do when the time comes."

"Sam! Sam!" Gilly burst in, her eyes wide. "Ser Jorah's awake!"

"I have to go, Lady Stark," Sam burst, getting up so quickly his chair clattered to the floor behind him.

"I'm coming, too," Sansa announced, easily keeping pace with him.


	2. Prayers

Thoughts swam in and out. It was like there was an important word on the tip of his tongue, but Jorah couldn't quite grasp it. It was _so close, _but then it was a million miles away. He was somewhere familiar, or so he thought. It didn't matter. What mattered was… well, he couldn't remember.

And then she spoke to him. "Ser Jorah!"

He opened his eyes. A beautiful pale face gazed down at him. _Of course. _He'd never forget her. "Khaleesi?"

"No," the voice replied, a note of worry settling into the voice. "Sansa Stark. Lady of Winterfell."

_Winterfell._ Jorah remembered. All at once, it hit him with the force of a battle hammer to the chest. "Daenerys?" He tried to sit up, but a thousand points in his body lit up in agony.

Someone's hands were at his shoulders. The gentle pressure was enough to restrain him as if it were a pair of chains. He'd never felt so weak. Terror seized his breath away and he panted to regain it.

"Ser Jorah, stay down," a kind voice came. "You're quite hurt. You'll be all right in time, but you need to rest."

Jorah knew the voice. He looked up. The Tarly boy. "Daenerys? Where is she?"

"She went to King's Landing," Sansa said.

Jorah blinked a few times until she came back into focus. Of course it was Sansa. The fiery red hair should have been a dead giveaway. Why was he in such a fog? He stirred. "Is Jon with her?" he rasped urgently.

Sansa answered. "Yes."

He laid still once more. It couldn't be. Daenerys was taking the Seven Kingdoms without him. She told him she needed him by her side. He fought back to her so many times and would do it a million more just to serve her. But she forged ahead, leaving him here to die. His heart sank. "How much time do I have?"

Sam burst out laughing. "Gracious, no. I won't let you _die, _Ser Jorah! Remember what I told you in the Citadel, all that time ago?"

Gilly cleared her throat. "It wasn't that long ago. It just feels like it."

"True," Sam replied. He touched Jorah's shoulder. "I won't let you die here. The only way I'll let you die is an old man in your bed."

Unaffected by Sam's elation that Jorah was awake, Sansa leaned in and cleared her throat. Jorah blinked, struggling to focus on her. "You know Daenerys Targaryen better than anyone left alive," she said carefully. "We need your counsel."  
His heart thudded out of time. The look on her face. The tone of her voice. No. _No. _"What has she done?" His voice only came out a crackling whisper.

He feared this day since the moment Daenerys burned the khals alive. Thoughts in his own mind whispered about her danger, her temper, but he could never bring himself to speak them. Not against Daenerys. Never. But Sansa's fair face, hard and angry, confirmed everything he feared. "Tell me everything," he croaked.

"There's a time and a place," Gilly cut in. "You need your rest, Ser Jorah. You need to regain your strength. There are no battles to fight now so you can rest all you need." She looked to Sam for approval and then made a note on the list at Jorah's bedside. Her hand moved slowly as she jotted down her observation with painstaking attention.

Sansa shot them a look but Sam cleared his throat and nodded. "That's right. Lady Stark, Ser Jorah isn't in any state for business or battle plans. A few days. Please. Surely we have that time."

"There's nothing sure. I don't know if we have a few _hours_."

Jorah snared Sansa by the wrist. "Tell me." His breath was coming in quick pants. He couldn't stop it. "Please." He had no strength to hold her to the spot, but she remained, her delicate wrist in his calloused grasp.

Sansa frowned, then brought her other hand to his. "Regain your strength. There's nothing to do today."

His hand fell away from hers. Jorah closed his eyes. No. No. _Khaleesi, what have you done?_

Gilly and Sam excused themselves, but Sansa hesitated. "I prayed and prayed so many nights for the gods to bring me a knight." She glanced at the sword, the ruined armor stashed beside the bed.

"When I was a little girl I prayed for a knight to protect me and guide me. When I was in King's Landing I prayed for a knight to save me. There are so many times in my life when I thought a knight as the answer to all of my prayers, and now here I am, faced with another impossible situation and here you are." She paused. "Daenerys Targaryen didn't deserve you."


	3. Whispers

"Jorah," the queen greeted him warmly. "It took you long enough."

A coy smile turned the corners of her lips upward. Giggles burst from her mouth and she swiveled back and forth like an excited little girl. The playfulness stood in stark contrast to the ruined city still smoldering around her. Daenerys Targaryen was standing alone, her silver hair gleaming amid the charred rubble and blackened soil. She excitedly beckoned him to join her. Her eyes appeared violet, but just for a moment.

Jorah reminded himself to breathe. King's Landing was utterly decimated. Even the sky was the wrong color. Sickly yellow clouds hung over the land. Somewhere a dragon called out. Its brother cried in return. A bell tolled and Daenerys called for someone to silence it. The bite of her voice was sharp. Her shoulders were rigid and tense.

"Khaleesi." Jorah inclined his head slowly, cautiously. The smell of smoke was thick in the air. It stung his throat, but he made sure not to choke on it.

"Come, my bear." The queen offered her hand, inviting him to climb the rubble to the dais and join her. "I've missed you." A smile lit up her face.

Jorah's breath caught in his chest. Her warmth was for him. Not Jon Snow. Not Tyrion Lannister or Grey Worm or Missandei or Khal Drogo. She was reaching for him, smiling for him. It was like the early days as they crossed the Red Waste. How she'd smiled when he found a peach and brought it to her. It wasn't even a particularly juicy or big fruit, but she smiled all the same and Jorah would never forget how it felt to win her joy. He'd do it all the days of his life.

He eagerly started his ascent to her. His own elation fell away immediately. Every step was a sickening unavoidable crunch. Human bones crushed by stone or rendered to ash and fragments of skull and femur by dragonfire littered the way. Soldiers. Bakers. Nobility. It didn't matter. It all sounded the same under his boots.

It was war. She had to do what she had to do. Jorah tried to ignore the human carnage leading the way to his queen_. What had she done? _ Could this truly have been her? The Tarlys came to mind and Jorah pursed his lips.

"You look quite grim," Daenerys said with her own grimace. "Aren't you happy to see me?" Giddiness replaced the solemn question in an instant. "I did it! I took the Seven Kingdoms. It took blood and fire, but I did it. Don't you realize who you're speaking to?"

"Of course, Khaleesi," he replied, making sure his voice was calm as ever. Bones crumbled beneath his feet. His footing went out from under him more than once. Still, he climbed up and up to his queen, ignoring the churning of his stomach and pounding of his heart.

She glared down at him, watching him struggle up the ruins. "Say it."

"Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name." Crunch. A section of ribs. "The Unburnt. Queen of the Andals and the First Men."

"Keep going."

He obeyed. Another step. "Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea." Crunch. This time, a child's skull, judging by the size of it. His stomach lurched and he glanced backward. The mountain of bones seemed to have grown. He wasn't even halfway to her. Jorah looked back up and again Daenerys's eyes were the wrong color.

The violet eyes flashed. "Why do you keep stopping?"

"Breaker of Chains." Jorah hesitated. He took another step but the bones crumbled, tumbling out from under him like a landslide. He reached out and desperately tried to find a handhold. Small bones tumbled over his hands and into his face. Larger bones and chunks of the city swiftly fell away beneath him. Fingers scrambling for something, anything solid, Jorah looked up. He lunged to keep himself abreast of the river of bones. "Khaleesi!" he called.

She didn't move. "You're leaving me again," Daenerys's cold voice came.

The bones were pouring over him now, burying him in the avalanche. "Khaleesi!" he called frantically. "Khaleesi!"  
Daenerys Targaryen watched his ruin, utterly disinterested. 

"_Khaleesi!"_

Someone was there wiping sweat from his brow and speaking kind words. "It's all right. You're all right. It's only a fever dream." Then, a call. "Maester? He's awake."

* * *

The Lady of Winterfell was suddenly a regular visitor to the infirmary.

Gilly had never known a lord or lady to care about anyone but themselves. The rulers and most of the people Gilly knew were nothing like Sansa, though. _Lady Stark,_ she reminded herself. Lady Stark was kind but firm, beautiful yet approachable. Seeing her keep watch over the old knight was peculiar, but not unexpected coming from her.

"Is this something ladies do in the North, or is it just you?" Gilly watched with wonder as Sansa dragged a half-finished gown to the chair beside Jorah's bed. "Visit the sick and wounded?"

Sansa blushed. "No. I just - " she trailed off and threw her attention to her sewing. "I just wanted to be here. That's all."

"Oh." Gilly wanted to touch the fine emerald fabric but kept folding bandages instead. "No one else has come to visit Ser Jorah. It's very nice you are. I think they know when someone's here."

Jorah was asleep for the second day straight with help of milk of the poppy. The pain – physical and otherwise, Gilly suspected – was too much. When he was awake, a fever spiked and worried Sam. He put the knight back to sleep and vowed again that he wouldn't let a Mormont die on his watch. Unfortunately for him, he was the only maester on watch. Gilly helped take shifts. Sometimes she brought Little Sam in to play while she kept an eye on the patient.

After a comfortable silence, Sansa sighed and set her sewing down in her lap. "Do you ever feel like you spend your life waiting for other people?"

Gilly nodded. "Waiting for Sam. Waiting for the kings and queens. Waiting for the baby to grow big and be born. Waiting for Ser Jorah to wake up." She touched her stomach, which was plumping up a little more each day. "Some things are worth waiting for."

"I told myself I was done waiting for men but here I am." Sansa gazed at Jorah and a small smile came to her face. "I'm beginning to think it's unavoidable."

"I think it's okay if they're good men." Gilly packed away the stack of bandages and came to the bedside. She touched Jorah's forehead and blinked in disbelief. She looked at Sansa, then back to Jorah. She switched hands. She felt her own forehead, then finally smiled. "I think the fever's broke. I have to get Sam!" She hurried from the room. Sam would be ecstatic. He hadn't slept much, worrying about Ser Jorah.

Halfway down the corridor she froze. _Manners. _She turned back to ask Lady Stark's forgiveness but froze in the doorway at the sight. Sansa was stroking Jorah's cheek and whispering something to him. Gilly smiled and quietly went on her way.

* * *

Brienne stalked across the walls, calling it guard duty but knowing it was just an excuse to avoid other people. No one knew what was happening down south. No one had written. Sansa wouldn't allow anyone – not even her – to set foot outside Winterfell. There could be a dragon flying north to obliterate them all. Jon could be marching home. They had no idea.

And she still had no definitive word on Jaime. Had he died in Cersei's arms? Did he revert to the good man he truly was and plunge a dagger through her heart as the city burned? Or was he merely rejoining the Stark ranks, fighting his own Lannister men at the city gate? She doubted it.

It wasn't fair. The Lannisters, the Targaryens. The game of thrones. Brienne was tired of all of it. Unfortunately she was being pulled further into its murky depths.

Lady Stark let her in on her plan, meant to end the reign of the dragon queen. Sansa was waiting for her knight to wake up and spill the Targaryen girl's secrets. She held vigil at his bedside near constantly. Brienne snorted. Ser Jorah Mormont would never betray his queen. No knight would. She knew it for a fact. There wasn't a single form of torture or humiliation she wouldn't endure to keep the Stark girls' secrets.

But Sansa wouldn't listen. She swore she'd be able to win his trust and determine Daenerys's next move. From what they understood from scant communication coming from down south, she was simply holding court amid the ruins.

Brienne didn't like it or trust it. Staying put didn't mean the dragon queen wouldn't decide to fly north to burn House Stark once and for all.

"Ser."

Brienne jutted her chin out to Podrick, who was _actually _on guard duty. "Staying warm?"

He shrugged. "I don't like waiting around," he grumbled. "Shouldn't we be preparing our defenses? What about one of those weapons to launch a big arrow at the dragon when it comes back? Gendry could build one."

Sighing, Brienne shook her head. "Lady Stark says to wait. What defense is there against dragon fire? King's Landing had scorpions at every gate and still they fell."

Pod frowned and glanced out onto the charred ground outside the walls. "Right. So we wait for Mormont?"

Brienne narrowed her eyes. "I don't remember telling you that."

A wry smile came to the squire's face. "One of the maids says Lady Stark is waiting at his bedside for him to say something in his sleep."

Brienne raised an eyebrow. "When did you run into a maid? I've seen you training nonstop."

"You know," he added after a moment, "in bed."

"Podrick!" Brienne guffawed. The sound was a roar through the silent courtyard, but it felt good. The pair laughed and laughed, and laughed harder when northerners look up to the wall to see what the ruckus was about.

* * *

When Jorah awoke many mornings after the battle of Winterfell, he knew it was the last day he would love Daenerys Targaryen.

Sansa Stark was at his bedside, idly chatting with Gilly and Sam as they huddled at a small table near the door.

Sam was the first to notice. "Oh! Look who's joining us! My last patient from the Battle." He rushed over and checked Jorah's vitals before nodding his approval. "Better. Better. How do you feel? You look better. It's time for some food, I think. You'll waste away without proper nourishment." He helped Jorah into a slightly inclined position, propping him up on a small mountain of pillows. "How's that?"

Jorah nodded. "Tell me everything," he managed through his dry throat.

Clearing his throat, Sam gestured to Sansa. "I think perhaps we should have breakfast first. There are lemon cakes! They're Lady Stark's favorite. There's never a shortage of them, and that's a problem if you have a sweet tooth like me." He chuckled.

Sansa shuffled one off of her own plate, onto a napkin, and offered it to Jorah. "Please. Eat. You must be starving."  
The smell of toast and eggs _did _ pique his interest. He accepted the bar and tried a small bite. It went down as well as he could expect. He popped the rest of the cake in his mouth at once.

"No lack of appetite," Sam noted. "That's good. Gilly, would you make him a plate?"

Gilly got up to do so but Sansa easily slid her plate into Jorah's lap. "Might I have a word with Ser Jorah alone?" Sansa said sweetly. There was no hint of the Lady of Winterfell in her voice. It was a polite request to equals.

Sam hesitated. He and Gilly exchanged glanced. Sansa held Jorah's gaze, her soft smile never faltering. Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Jorah shook his head.

"I'm an old man nearly hewn in two," Jorah offered with a hint of humor. The graininess of his voice lessened somewhat with every word. He wondered how long it had been since he was awake. "I swear on my word no harm will come to Lady Sansa."

"It's not Lady Sansa I'm worried about," Sam replied nervously. He motioned to Gilly nonetheless and they slid out the door.

Jorah and Sansa spoke at the same time the moment the door clicked shut. "Tell me everything," he said as she asked, "Have you heard what she's done?" They studied each other in silence before Jorah bowed his head, gesturing for her to speak.

Sansa cleared her throat and looked down at his breakfast plate. "I'm sorry. You're only just awake. Please, eat. I'll talk. You can listen."

This was no time to eat, but he was certain the news would spur him to action or ruin his appetite. The aroma of eggs filled his nostrils and Jorah couldn't think of a time he'd been more hungry, not even in the Red Waste. Jorah shoveled food into his mouth, aware of how weak he'd become. He ate quickly, urging his upset stomach to quell itself and make room for sustenance. In his sorry state he wasn't much good to anyone, but he'd be even more useless dead.

"Here," Sansa quickly exclaimed, pouring a large goblet of juice. "I'm sorry. My mind is elsewhere. I've forgotten my manners." She thrust it into his hand.

Jorah nodded and drained the goblet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Could I-?"

"Of course." Sansa filled the goblet and again, he drank it all. "I didn't ask how you feel. Forgive me. Sam said you were past the worst of it. You were very lucky in the location of your wounds. A few inches either way and you'd be dead for sure."

Jorah nodded. "I've felt better."

"Maester Samwell drained his own blood into you. You didn't have much left."

Jorah looked up. "Did he?"

Sansa smiled. "Jon was right. He's going to be a great maester here for many years. Gilly is wonderful, too."

"Your words are pleasant, Lady Stark, but I can see it on your face." Jorah set the empty plate aside. "What has she done?"

Sansa heaved a sigh. "You called out for her in the night. I thought perhaps you'd heard the whispers. I meant to keep it a secret until we were better prepared, but there are little birds everywhere."

"No. Just a dream." Jorah shook his head, then corrected himself. "A nightmare." He held Sansa's gaze. Perhaps he was still groggy from the milk of the poppy, but there was something strange in her eyes. Fierceness, unapologetic devotion to her people, and – pity?

Sansa spoke carefully. "She took King's Landing. The Lannisters threw down their swords and rang the bells to surrender. It was over." Sansa fussed with her gown. "Jon sent word."

It should have been good news, but there wasn't a hint of victory in Sansa's face. Jorah wiped his mouth and considered what he was about to hear. Clearly that wasn't the end of the story. Sansa's stern glance was meant to steel him. He appreciated her subtle warning, but in his heart he already knew what happened. It's what he feared since they sailed across the Narrow Sea. He'd even dreamt it. She'd finally done it.

He drew a deep, ragged breath.

She reached across the table and covered his hand – large, rough, scarred – with her own – fair, smooth, milky white. "I'm sorry to bear the news. Another of the dragons died. Shot down by Euron Greyjoy's fleet. And her friend from Naath-"

Jorah's stomach dropped even further. "Missandei?"

Sansa assumed it was right. "Yes. Cersei Lannister captured her and had her beheaded in front of your queen."

Missandei, who he had spent so much time with. Perhaps more than the queen, in recent days. She was kind and enjoyed learning about Westerosi cultures. Often she asked Jorah to help her read difficult words in foreign languages. She tried to tell jokes. She even asked Jorah to hold sections or braids of Daenerys's hair as she wove intricate designs. He'd do anything for her, even submit to being a handmaid to the queen. A pang struck him in the heart. Jorah imagined his relationship with Missandei was what fathers felt for their daughters. "She was kind," he managed in a strangled cough. He sat quietly for a moment.

Sansa allowed him a moment during which she studied him in wonder. When he finally drew a breath and looked back up, she continued. "We haven't heard anything to indicate Tyrion is anything but alive. That's where the good news begins and ends."

Jorah sighed. "Talking is his one talent, but it's the only one he needs." Still, Sansa didn't react to the words. So Tyrion hadn't been able to talk Daenerys down. With another dragon killed and Missandei executed before her eyes? Jorah rubbed his forehead and wondered what _he _would have said to change her mind. There was truly nothing that could have been done. Except for maybe Jon Snow.

Sansa gritted her teeth. "Tyrion didn't stop her. Jon didn't stop her. No one did _anything_ to stop her." She checked her anger and considered her words. "The bells were still ringing the city's surrender when she burned King's Landing down. Soldiers. Civilians. It didn't matter. There is nothing left standing."

Jorah stared at her and replayed the words in his head. Perhaps his mind was scrambled in the melee. He couldn't have heard right. The _whole_ city? Snipits of his dream replayed and he forced the images away. No. Daenerys once locked the dragons away for burning _one _child. How could she burn an entire city?

Without needing to be asked, Sansa asked and slowly repeated, "I'm sorry. You couldn't have known. It's the truth. Daenerys burned thousands of innocent people alive."

Jorah turned his head and promptly vomited onto the floor.


	4. Rivers and Roads

Another bloody bandage fell to the ground.

Sam dictated notes for Gilly to write down while he changed Jorah's bandages. There were fewer to change than the day before. An ugly wound on his forehead graduated from needing to be wrapped constantly. Sam commented that Jorah must feel like a new man.

Jorah hardly listened.

His entire life had been wasted.

Everything. Every choice. Every turn and stroke of sword. Lynesse. Daenerys. Impossible beauties who he'd eagerly headed to ruin for. They never loved him, only what he had or what he could do for them. The pain split him to the soul.

When Sam retied a stitch, Jorah didn't even flinch. That was easy to bear. It was the pain inside that threatened to consume him.

He knew the feeling. It was heartbreak, plain and simple. Jorah didn't hesitate when the time came to give his life for Daenerys Stormborn. Neither of them should have made it out of the melee alive. But he always swore that if through his death he could give her another minute of life, he'd give it. And he did. Happily.

Did she bend and kiss his brow before she went, or did she simply subtract him from her number of fighters? Jorah didn't expect his love to be reciprocated, but in his years in the dragon queen's service, he never realized how little of anything she offered him in return. The truth was horrifying and humiliating, two things Jorah thought he was used to after his long life.

Daenerys loved him for his strength, for keeping her alive. That was all.

Jorah cringed as Samwell worked at one of the deeper wounds.

"Does it hurt more than yesterday, or less?" Sam asked pleasantly.

"The same," Jorah answered impatiently. "When will I be able to ride?"

Sam chuckled nervously. "_Ride_? Let's get you to sitting up and walking first, eh? It's thanks to the gods you didn't end on on a pyre."

"I hear it's thanks to you and your blood," Jorah said, finally caring enough to look up. The boy's face was already flushing. "Thank you. My father was wise to see your kindness as a strength. He'd have been proud."

Mumbling something about duty and vows, Sam turned back for clean bandages.

Jorah plunged back into his dark thoughts. So riding to Daenerys wasn't an option. Not that she'd see him, if he did make the journey. Thrice she sent him away and thrice he returned. What was once more? This time, though, he'd be returning from the grave, as far as she knew. Would that make her love him any more? He knew the answer.

Her cold words from his dream pierced his thoughts. "_You're leaving me again_."

Jorah imagined being met with dragonfire. Daenerys proved she didn't need him any longer. Why wouldn't she dispose of him? She didn't need an old knight telling her what to do. He shuddered at the thought of Drogon's glowing maw opening toward him.

Or perhaps it wouldn't go that way. Perhaps he could count on the dragon to have his wits about him. He'd surely remember that it was Jorah who made sure the dragons didn't starve as hatchlings. It was Jorah who saved them in Essos. As pups all three dragons sang for him and hopped up and down his arms during his meetings with Daenerys. They would have mourned his death on the battlefield. Surely they'd never breathe their fire upon him. _Right? _

There was no guarantee. Not anymore. The beautiful, clever girl he knew was gone. Daenerys Targaryen was lost. She had looked back and she was lost.

The tragedy at King's Landing was impossible to fathom. A million lives ended at Daenerys's hand. Could it be? Jorah recalled a time when the girl walked into a fire, not knowing what would happen. Was it so hard to think she'd plunge a city into fire with hopes that it could be reborn? She'd always felt like wildfire in his hands. In the jar it had potential to defend the weak or to consume everything. Jostled, it was unpredictable and more likely to destroy itself and everything around it in indiscriminate rage.

Jorah let anguish wash over him. It engulfed him entirely. An entire life wasted. The years before him weren't long, and certainly weren't his best. There was no redemption for Jorah Mormont, the man who set Daenerys Targaryen loose upon Westeros.

Sam cleared his throat. He'd asked a question and was waiting for a response.

Jorah didn't bother asking him to repeat himself. He didn't care. He truly didn't. He simply said, "I wish you'd let me die."

* * *

As shocked as she was to realize it, sometimes Sansa missed Littlefinger. She certainly felt safer with him dead, but his mind worked in a way she hadn't quite mastered yet. Being conniving didn't come easy. Instead, she decided to plunge forward in the Stark way: blatant truth.

Brienne sighed. "I don't like this."

"You don't have to like it." Sansa pulled her fur further up against her neck. The snow was swirling in big looping spirals, delicately landing in her hair and across the lands. The white slowly erased the charred ground and she was glad to see it go. In the courtyard at her back, activity slowly picked back up as life returned to some sort of new normal. Weeping and wailing broke out less and less. Northerners were strong. They'd move past the horrors and thrive once again.

Brienne kept her attention focused on Sansa. "I swore an oath-"

"-to my lady mother that you'd protect her girls," Sansa finished. "You _have_ protected me."

The knight huffed. Since Jaime Lannister rode off, she'd been a bear. Sansa understood the heartbreak, but had run out of patience. Worse things happened in the past week. Half the population was gone. That was just in Winterfell.  
Still, Brienne growled on. "We have an enemy in our infirmary. When he's released he should be seen immediately to the prison cells. He's dangerous to keep here."

Sansa leaned forward against the wall. She'd been in Brienne's frenzied state before. She wasn't going to let it affect her decisions. Not now where they mattered so much. "I won't see him in the cells."

Brienne's face was set for battle. "How do you know destroying the city wasn't his idea?"

Finally Sansa spun and faced Brienne, her own face set in a firm scowl. "Because I'm the one who told him what she did. I saw the look on his face. I heard him screaming when I left the room." She held her ground until Brienne nodded and looked down. "If I've learned anything," Sansa continued, "it's when people are lying to me."

Brienne pursed her lips and said nothing.

Sansa hated the look on Brienne's face, but remembered her mother's loneliness and warning that being a lady meant having few friends. "I won't see Ser Jorah thrown in a cell and I won't have him treated like a prisoner, either. He is my guest and he'll stay as long as he pleases." Sansa nodded curtly, dismissing her.

Brienne's lip curled. "The moment he's able, he'll ride to her," she spat. "Mark my words. Men are all the same. You think they can change and that they're noble and good, but they're not. I've been around knights and squires and princes and-"

"So have I," Sansa cut her off. Her mind flickered to an imagine of Theon's face. "There are good men left. And people can change. Besides, we've lost too many. We can't make enemies of the few that remain."

* * *

Somewhere nearby, a pack of wolves howled in the night.

The white mare beneath Arya whickered. She patted the horse's neck and muttered reassuring words, hoping the beast understood it was important they keep moving. Arya barely stopped since fleeing the ruined city. There was too much chaos. Jon was there somewhere, if he was still alive. She didn't care to stay and find out. _Home. Home. Go home._

Her head was being pried apart with a searing battle ax. Dehydration? Blood loss? A skull fracture? A thousand spills and collisions surely meant a concussion at least. Arya didn't care to figure it out. She had to keep moving. Winterfell's maester could patch her up as soon as she arrived. No rest until then, she reminded herself. Sleep could mean death. _What do we say to death?_ Arya smiled.

Perseverance alone couldn't carry her onward toward Winterfell. When she heard the trickle of water, she stopped to drink deeply and long.

A crunch in the woods garnered a tired sigh from her. Arya drew Needle and bared her teeth but quickly gasped. There she was, her guardian angel in the woods. Nymeria's ears were back, but her teeth weren't bared.

"Hello, girl. Where's your family?"

The direwolf didn't move.

Arya nodded. "I'm sorry if you don't have them anymore. You remember Robb who found you and your brothers and sisters? He's gone. And our parents. And Rickon." She sighed. "A lot has changed since then."

The white mare snorted and Nymeria growled low in her throat.

"No," Arya said firmly. "Leave her alone."

The wolf swished its tail.

"You can always come home with me," Arya said. "That's where I'm going. That's where I'm staying. I mean it this time." She sheathed Needle and sat back down at the stream. She let the cold water wash over her hands and splashed some on her face. Gods, how her head hurt. She sniffled, then cleared her throat and pushed the urge to cry away. "Stupid," she spat. "Stupid girl, crying's for babies." Arya wiped at her eyes. Her sleeves came away with crusty blood. She was covered in it, and not entirely sure all of it was her own.

"I'm going home." Arya filled her skin and got back into the saddle. "Come along or don't, but I'm going home."

One at a time, Nymeria's ears perked up. For a moment the wolf simply watched the mare disappear from sight. After a moment, she gave a long howl, then in a few long strides, caught up. She trotted along, keeping her distance but always within sight for the rest of the ride.

* * *

Sam nearly ran headfirst into Sansa as he hurried out of Jorah's new chambers. He'd healed enough to earn a ticket out of the infirmary, but that didn't mean freedom from Sam's watchful eye.

"Excuse me, Lady Stark," he sang out nervously. "You do _not _want to go in there at this moment. Just a bit of frustration about recovery. Nothing unusual for a patient of his status with the extent of injuries he-" Something crashed into the door and he jumped.

"That's Ser _Jorah_?" Sansa breathed in wonder. She grew up with enough brothers to know that sometimes feelings did indeed come out physically instead of verbally. Somehow she thought the knight was above that.

Sam shrugged, gritted his teeth, and went on his way.

Sansa pushed open the door just in time to see Jorah clear the writing desk of its contents in one violent swipe.

"Lady Lyanna once said men from Bear Island fought with the strength of ten mainlanders," she announced. "Is that why you're thrashing about so soon after being stitched up?"

Shame visibly washed over him. He bowed his head and caught his breath, remaining silent but for his ragged pants.

Sansa looked about the room. A walker lay on its side against a wall. A wheelchair was wedged under the writing desk, one of its wheels still spinning. Unintimidated, she looked back to Jorah, who had settled onto the edge of the bed, his face in his hands.

"Lady Stark," Jorah said in a low voice. "Forgive me." He clenched and unclenched his fists. When she said nothing, he offered an excuse. "I'm a knight. If I can't ride or swing a sword, I'm lost."

"It's Sansa. Please."

Jorah looked up in surprise. "You mean to give the north back to Jon?"

"No," she snapped quickly. "I don't." She crossed the room, set the walker upright and pulled it over to the bed. Jorah watched her glumly, but she ignored the glower. "I just don't think you need to call me lady anything. Do you prefer Ser Jorah or Lord Mormont, by the way?"

"Lord Mormont? Sounds like a title I abandoned long ago."

"Bear Island has no lady, no lord. It needs a Mormont. I happen to have one."

"I appreciate that you think me valuable enough to the queen that I should be kept from her at any costs, including Bear Island." The rage had gone from Jorah. He didn't try to hide his curiosity. "Is that why you've come?"

Sansa sighed. "Now that you're better, I wanted to talk." She froze. "You're bleeding."

Jorah glanced down at the red seeping through his shirt. "It's fine."

"It's not fine," Sansa snapped, pushing him back onto the bed and lifting his shirt. Each of the four wounds were oozing blood. "You've popped your stitches. Are you happy with that outburst now? I hope you feel better, because this is going to be a mess to fix." She turned from the room. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

When Sansa returned with the maester's kit under her arm, Jorah looked confused. "Where's Tarly?"

"Busy." She thrust a bottle of rum into his hand. "You'd better drink this." Realizing that wasn't the most appealing bedside manner, she tried again. "It's fine. I'm a good seamstress. I make my own dresses."

He almost chuckled and Sansa paused for a moment. "On second thought, maybe I'll take just a drink of that. I've never done stitches."

A few minutes later, Jorah held his breath and Sansa did her best to be gentle. The needle moved through skin easily enough. Sansa forced herself to pretend it was just another cuff of a sleeve or corset to fix. A needleprick to the finger was painful. Never having received stitches herself, she couldn't imagine how awful it felt. The knight didn't thrash or jerk away, so she figured she was doing a good enough job. "How drunk are you?" Sansa asked as she turned to the last gash.

Jorah winced as she blotted the blood away. "Drunk enough. Drunker than I was when your maester cured my greyscale"

"Greyscale?" Sansa exclaimed, jerking away from his as if he was on fire.

"Completely cured," Jorah replied. "You're safe, I promise. Tarly would be covered in it if he hadn't done the job right."

Sansa took him at his word and continued her work, noting to ask Sam about that later. "You're sober enough to hear what I came here to say? I need to apologize for something. I want to make sure you'll remember it in the morning."

He nodded slightly.

"I learned how to play the game of thrones. I had to. No one gets to sit out. Everyone plays." She pressed the needle through the wide laceration across his collarbone and he twitched. "Sorry." She handed him the bottle and he tipped it back.

"Thanks."

She nodded. "Every conversation, meal you eat. How you wear your hair, what color your gown is. All moves in the game. One move affects the next." She checked to see if he was paying attention. He was. She continued. "I've done horrible things. I don't regret them. I did what needed to be done."

"Sansa." His voice was velvet, curling around her.

"I'm not a gracious host, if that's what you think. I didn't sit by your bedside so you wouldn't die alone. I wasn't wiping your brow because I cared about your comfort. Not at first. I thought I could coax some sort of clue from you." She didn't look up from the red flesh. No. She couldn't. She kept at the work.

Jorah's eyebrows quirked. "You mean to inform on me. Write to Jon. Destroy Daenerys."

"Yes." Sansa finally found his gaze. She owed him that. "I haven't been kind to you. Not really. Maybe this is a stupid way to play the game, but I don't like the other way. Not Littlefinger's. Not Varys's. I want to do it _my _way." She looked back down and quickly finished the last of the work. She tied off the last stitch and sat back. "It was easier with the Lannisters, the Boltons. This is different when there's a good man involved."

Jorah propped himself up on his elbows, examining himself. When he looked back up, his face had softened. "You think me a good man, my lady?"

"Before he left, Tyrion told me to keep you alive. He promised you were a good and true knight." Her cheeks burned. She let her eyes drop to her hands in her lap. "This is the Stark way. Dishonesty and treachery isn't something my father would have been proud of."

"Your father wanted to kill me, you know?"

"We do stupid things for love." Sansa offered a small smile. "Worse things have happened since then."

"I loved her," Jorah blurted. "I still do. I understand if you sentence me to death."

Sansa nearly choked. "Why would I do that?"

"I kept Daenerys alive for years. She'd have been poisoned, stabbed, speared, torn to pieces, hexed, a thousand terrible fates." He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Spared from death just to deliver it to the masses."

"That's not your fault," Sansa scoffed. "It's her own fault. You didn't make her do this." She touched his hand. "You're a good man."

* * *

Drogon groaned. It had been too long since he stretched his wings, since he had a good hunt. He impatiently bared his teeth, not really meaning anything by it. Just a reminder. A little nudge.

His mother didn't fall for the charade. Instead, she patted his massive snout. Message received. _A little longer. _He couldn't leave. Not yet, at least. Hunting could come later.

The Unsullied stood at attention in the remains of the courtyard. The Dothraki mulled about. Grey Worm had complained more than once that none of the Dothraki spoke enough Valyrian or common tongue to follow his orders. That wasn't Drogon's problem. Grey Worm was commander of the soldiers. All he had to worry about was his mother, and she had bigger picture things to worry about.


	5. Fear

Arya rode through the gate, ignoring the young guard who meekly called after her. She needed the maester, water, and Sansa.

As always, it was easy to spot Sansa thanks to her mane of fiery hair. She was in a serious conversation with a Karstark woman. None of the men survived the fight again the dead and Lady Karstark was in charge now. Upon further inspection, Arya found it wasn't the Karstark woman she thought. It was her daughter. She was Arya's age.

Sansa happened to turn and caught sight of her. Her jaw dropped and she turn and ran, her skirts flying out around her. "You're alive!" she called. The unladylike display made Arya want to cry. Even though she was a spoiled brat when they were girls, she could sure be decent when she wanted to.

The common folk watched, relief on their faces as the sisters hugged. Even one more accounted for was good. She was a fighter. That was better. Her return gave them hope that their soldiers would return, too.

"Tell me everything!" Sansa exclaimed, pressing a kiss to the top of Arya's head. In that moment, she reminded Arya exactly of their mother, and that was precisely what she'd needed.

* * *

Jon Snow said nothing.

Beside him, Grey Worm stood at attention, stock still alongside his Unsullied as Daenerys surveyed her armies. Behind his helm Grey Worm could have been smiling or weeping and Jon would never know. Only once did he cast Jon a sidelong glance.

Jon didn't expect kindness from the general. On the contrary. The first chance he got, Jon was certain Grey Worm would give Daenerys a full report about the battle, including how Jon pulled the Northmen back. It probably didn't bode well.

None of Jon's options seemed feasible or fair. He needed to talk to Tyrion. He hadn't seen him, though, and suspected the Lannister wouldn't be found until he was good and ready to be found.

Daenerys hadn't talked to anyone since taking the city. That couldn't last long. Jon expected he'd be summoned sooner or later. When that time came, he needed to know what to do. He heaved a sigh. The words uttered to him in another lifetime held true even into this one. He knew nothing.

* * *

When Ser Jorah entered the great hall at dinner time, Brienne bristled.

"He lived?" Podrick quipped from beside her, stuffing his face with a piece of bread. "They'll write songs about that one. Thought he was dead when they carried him past me."

Brienne watched the knight's movements. They were guarded and small. He was still hurting. She wondered if he should even be up and about, or if he was putting on a farce in order to leave faster. Lady Stark bid no one leave Winterfell for the time being, but Brienne didn't expect Sansa would order the dragon knight to stay put.

"What's the matter?" Pod asked through a mouth full of food. "That's Jorah Mormont."

"I know very well who it is," Brienne snapped. "A Targaryen man. Did you forget what the dragon queen did to King's Landing?"

Pod took a large fork full of food and shrugged.

Brienne scowled for a moment, then stood up. "Mormont."

Though her voice boomed with authority, the hall didn't quiet. Calls and shouts were common during mealtime. Even the occasional brawl broke out. Things had been quiet since the battle with the dead, but volume rose along with spirits.

Bowl in hand, Jorah strode over. "I don't believe we've met."

"Brienne of Tarth. This is Podrick." She gestured for him to sit. When he did, Brienne pushed her bowl away and leaned across the table. "I'm sworn to protect the Stark girls. Winterfell is my home."

Jorah nodded. "I trust you're becoming accustomed to the cold. Don't let your fire go out." With that, he tucked into his dinner.

Brienne thumped an elbow down to draw his attention. "I didn't invite you over to discuss the weather. I want to know where your loyalties lie now that your queen has murdered thousands of people."

Podrick sucked his spoon clean and looked from knight to knight. Jorah simply took another bite.

"Do you have nothing to say?" Brienne touched her hilt. It was more out of habit than a threat, but it didn't go unnoticed.

Jorah gutted his chin out. "No."

She slammed her tankard down. "You're an outsider! An adviser to the dragon queen! You swore an oath to her. Now you eat and drink under my lady's roof and for all I know, you're waiting for orders to slay her. Daenerys has no love for Lady Stark." Brienne pulled her sword on him. It briefly caught attention from the others in the hall. "If you do anything to harm a single hair on either of the Stark girls' heads, I'll-"

Jorah thought for a moment, then calmly replied, "Would you feel better if I vowed my sword to Lady Sansa?"

Brienne narrowed her eyes. "You're already sworn for House Targaryen."

Jorah nodded. "And before that, House Baratheon, and before that, House Stark." He met her fiery gaze with a harsh glare of his own. "I don't think I was alone in being sworn to serve a Baratheon before my current liege."

Brienne gaped. H_ow did he know?_ "I wasn't a sworn knight then," she recovered.

Nonplussed, Jorah continued to eat. "Titles mean far less in the world than people here think. You've been a knight since you donned the armor and decided dying for your lord was a good use of your life."

Podrick nodded approvingly, but stopped when Brienne shot him a look.

"So you're saying," she said slowly, "you nearly died for Daenerys Targaryen not a fortnight ago and now you're switching sides." Brienne sat back and smirked. She had him.

Jorah chewed a lemon bar and swallowed slowly, taking time to consider his answer. "I'll die for what I think is right." He leaned across the table, meeting her head to head. "My father was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He and Jon were close. He carries the Mormont family sword, you know. I was exiled so my father gifted it to him." He smiled fondly. "He tried to give it back when we went beyond the wall together." He finished his dinner and leaned on his hands. "Jon bet half the North on Daenerys Stormborn. The last of my house died fighting for him. For her. I would have ridden south at _his_ side, not just the queen's. If you think me a traitor, you'll see Jon's head roll, too."

Brienne clamped her jaw shut. Lady Stark may have been right. The game of thrones was impossible. Brienne preferred good honest combat where rules and victories were clear cut. This was something else entirely. She sullenly shoveled down her food and stood.

Jorah stood as well.

Brienne stepped around the table and met him toe to toe. "I hope you know I'll cut you down if you lay a hand on Lady Stark or harm a hair on her head. I won't hesitate. Come along, Pod."

* * *

The sword was heavy in his hand. His sword arm was uninjured, but everything it was connected to still tugged and pulled when he moved too quickly or too far. The stitches held well, though, and he was careful not to pop them. He feared the wrath that awaited him should he do it twice.

Jorah stared at himself in the mirror. Stripped down to his trousers, he nearly didn't recognize himself. Long gashes and deep divots would forever mark where blades entered his flesh. It was an act of some god that he was up and feeling decent so soon. He was beginning to think Samwell Tarly knew some of the same magic as the red priestesses.

A rustle at the doorway drew his attention.

"Ser- Oh. Sorry." Sansa paused but didn't move to leave. Her eyes took in his body unabashedly. She lingered on her stitches, then cleared her throat and looked into his face again. "I'm glad to see you haven't ripped out any more of my handiwork."

Jorah reached for his shirt but didn't immediately see it. He cleared his throat. "I didn't properly thank you for sewing me back up."

"And you aren't properly using your walker like Sam said you should. "Sansa took another leisurely glance across his scarred body. "You look like Jon now."

Jorah snorted. "Lucky me."

Sansa fought back a smile. "Fighting someone?" She nodded to the sword at his side.

"Not any time soon." He sheathed the weapon and set it back on the ledge of the window. "I'm certain Ser Brienne can manage."

Sansa stepped past the doorway and sat at the foot of the bed. Jorah watched her in wonder, then pretended it was normal.

"She was my mother's man, and now she serves me." Sansa fussed with a fold in her skirt, then looked up. "She told me you wanted to see me, but she wouldn't say what it was about."

"Thank you again," Jorah bowed his head. "I'm grateful for a bed outside the infirmary. Tarly is a good maester. Thorough. Watchful. It's been many years since I had anyone looking over me, though. In Essos I dressed my own wounds and prayed they didn't fester. The attention is-"

"Smothering." Sansa smiled. "I know what you mean. Not about Essos," she admitted. She motioned to the bed. "Please, sit. I haven't forgotten watching you sleep for two days straight." She watched him settle onto the bed opposite her. "Essos. I don't know how you lived there for so long. No maesters, slavery, the Dothraki."

"Should you ever want to travel there, I'll serve as your guide. My Valyrian is rusty, but I'm sure it would come back."

Sansa laughed. The sound warmed his chest.

"Let me serve you," he burst.

The laughter died in her throat. "What?"

With some difficult, Jorah dropped to one knee. He grabbed his sword and placed it before her. "I swear to protect you. I will serve you and your house-"

"Jorah."

"I may be old and broken, but I'll make sure no harm comes to you or House Stark."

Sansa drew a shaky breath. "What about Daenerys?"

Jorah remembered so many talks with his khaleesi in the Red Waste. _If I look back, I am lost. _  
"She's lost." He sighed. "This has been her dream, her only dream. She's done it and as long as none stand in her way-" he trailed off.

"You don't know, do you?" The color was gone out of Sansa's face.

Jorah listened raptly as the lady of Winterfell told him about the true heir to the Iron Throne. When she finished speaking, she fidgeted with her trembling hands. "It's the truth."

He sucked his teeth for a moment, then nodded. The news sank in with horrible certainty. And that meant Daenery's rock steady claim to the Iron Throne meant nothing. "Ned Stark could never have fathered a bastard," he muttered. "Anyone who knew him knew it."

He felt Sansa's eyes on him, pleading for advice, for a battle plan, for anything. Even the love and devotion he dedicated to Daenerys over the years couldn't paint a pleasant picture of her reaction. If Jon Snow was the heir to the Iron Throne, Daenerys's next move was clear.

"She'll kill him."

Sansa jerked. "How soon?"

Jorah shook his head. "I don't know. I do know she watched Drogo kill her own brother. She won her khalesaar by burning their khals alive." He took Sansa's hands in his. "If he challenges her, Daenerys is going to kill Jon."


	6. Allegiance

Dark wings, dark words.

Lady Sansa was in the godswood with her back against the weirwood tree and a book in her lap. The sun warmed her face, even if just a little bit. After all, it was still winter. She held her breath as the bird landed on the ground near her, hopping closer and closer until she finally reached for it. The raven held out its leg just long enough for Sansa to untie the parchment before it fluttered away in a flurry of feathers and impatient _caw_s.

Icy blue eyes scanned the words. Her fingers, gloved in black leather, clutched the parchment as if it were the raven itself, at risk of flying away. The three words in Jon's hand gave her solace and relieved some of the crushing weight that kept her chest restricted the past week.

_Await my word._

It was enough. Jon was alive. Jon was going to do something. Sansa had no idea how big or small that something was, but it was enough to give her hope. Sitting around Winterfell was exhausting. It was boring. Time crawled and flew by. At the end of each day Sansa let out a breath, surprised they made it another day without a dragon.

This changed things. She picked up her book and quickly pressed the message inside the cover, unwilling to share its contents with anyone but Arya. Her skirts swished as she turned and began to hurry toward the castle. Her feet couldn't carry her fast enough. Arya had to know. She'd be as elated as Sansa. She _knew _they could count on Jon to finally do the right thing. Laughter was at her lips and then bursting from her mouth. Peace. Peace was coming. Soon. _Soon!_

She swung around a tree and crashed headfirst into something. Sansa tumbled backward onto the ground and sat for a moment, stunned. She knew these woods. How had she been so careless to crash into a tree? She shook her head to clear her eyes of the stars. When she blinked them clear, she saw a pair of boots before her.

Cringing with his hand clasped over his deepest wound, Ser Jorah panted and held to the tree for support. "Are you hurt? Forgive me. I was looking for Bran." He moved to help her up, but Sansa scrambled to her feet just as he groaned and leaned heavily upon the trunk again.

"You won't find him," Sansa replied. "He's the Three Eyed Raven now." She ducked under his arm and wrapped hers around his waist for support. "You shouldn't be this far out of the castle! You don't look well." She took a slow step and nodding encouragingly when Jorah fell in step with her. He even leaned on her, his arm heavy over her shoulders.

Jorah ignored her concern. "If Bran can see what Daenerys is doing, I can tell you what her next move will be."

"He won't help," Sansa sighed. "I don't know what the point in it is if he won't help us. How do you know what the Three Eyed Raven can do?"

"I read a lot." Jorah panted and hesitated. "I'm not healing as quickly as I should be."

"Because you won't stay in bed!" Sansa snapped. She trudged along a few more steps, ignoring the dizziness tingling at the front of her skull. "You don't need to push yourself back to fever. Jon is handling it. He just sent word to wait for him." She smiled and glanced at his face, hoping to see a smile.

Jorah stopped, cringing and clasping his side still. He grimaced. "I don't want her to die, Sansa."

"You love her still." Her lip twitched and she quickly pressed them together. She moved forward, his weight heavily on her now.

"This Daenerys is not the khaleesi I devoted my heart to. She is lost." Jorah struggled to keep pace with her as she marched along, desperate to be rid of him.

"If you love her, you should be with her. I give you leave to take a horse and go." She was surprised to hear herself give the order. That was the last thing she wanted.

Jorah stepped out of her embrace and leaned against a tree. He caught his breath for a moment, then looked up with pleading in his eyes. "Sansa. Please."

Sansa drew a breath. "If you love her-"

His teeth were bared and his voice boomed through the wood. "She has no love for me." Jorah bowed his head quickly. "Forgive me."

Sansa recalled how the dragon queen had thrown herself onto Jorah's chest and sobbed after the battle. Still, she said nothing. Jorah was watching her carefully, nearly as pale as he was when he was brought back to the castle. Guilt washed over her and she nodded for him to go on.

"I haven't been able to accept that I should have fallen back long ago." He drew a few more deep breaths. "I was a wise man, I would have married a northern girl and stayed on Bear Island. That was the life my father prepared for me and I threw it away for a pretty face." He pulled his hand away from his side. Crimson blossomed through his tunic and he sighed. "Now I have no house, no queen, no home."

Sansa held his gaze, understanding the severity of the moment. She wasn't a child and there was no room for foolish jealousy. Not anymore. Not with Jon and Winterfell and everything left that she loved still on the line. There were too few left to alienate anyone, especially good men. She spoke slowly and with as much conviction as she could muster. "Winterfell is your home."

* * *

As Sansa expected, Arya read and reread and then read Jon's letter again. A girlish smile lit up her face and she giggled, hand pressed to her mouth.

The Stark women were seated together at the head table, their heads together. Arya was especially glad to be occupying the dragon queen's seat. She had no right to sit in that place of honor in Winterfell.

"Maybe Jon will kill her and name you queen."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "He wouldn't name me queen."

"He doesn't want it," Arya replied quickly. Her eyes sparkled. "You always wanted to be the queen when you were a little girl. Maybe you still will."

"I don't want it either," Sansa replied.

Arya opened her mouth to argue, but knew it was a waste of time. Sansa was a good and fair ruler and everyone knew it. Even the Northern lords followed her without much complaint. Still, Arya knew, power did funny things to people. Would Sansa be able to stand up to the corruption and power? Her chest warmed at the answer. Yes, yes she could. But it all depended on Jon now.

Their dinner was already eaten and plates cleared, but the Starks stayed in the presence of their people as Ned and Catelyn had done so many years ago. If a lord or commoner had issue, let them bring it to them before everyone. Sansa didn't seem particularly troubled by complaints. She was leaning on her hand, gazing across the hall. Arya followed her line of sight and spotted Jorah Mormont, eating and speaking with a few of Winterfell's new young guards. They were far too young to be away from their parents, but they were orphans of war and Sansa had brought them in and offered them apprenticeships under the older guards and cooks, servants and smiths.

Arya looked back to Sansa, who hadn't broken her gaze. She smirked. Of course Lady Sansa was making eyes at Ser Jorah. If Sansa wasn't going to be queen, she was surely going to end up in love with a knight. Arya fought back a smile. Her beloved sister had survived many terrible things and she didn't see anything wrong with Sansa still dreaming after her pretty stories.

"You're with the dragon knight a lot." It wasn't a question. It was an accusation disguised as a statement.

Blushing, Sansa pretended she'd been scanning the hall. "No one calls him that." She rolled her eyes. "He's our guest. Of course I spend time with him. Jon and Tyrion said he'd be a very good ally."

"You trust him?" Arya raised an eyebrow. "He nearly died for her."

"He nearly died for the living. That was before."

"Oh, Sansa." Arya's eyes twinkled. "What would Father say about his daughter falling in love with a man he tried to execute?"

"Stop it. I hardly know him."

Arya stopped joking and touched Sansa's arm. "Don't make the same mistake as Jon."

Sansa snatched her goblet and took a long drink of wine. "I've known enough liars. He isn't one. Jon trusts him. Tyrion. Everyone."

"The North remembers," Arya replied before sliding off the bench and strolling over to his table. She ignored Sansa's sharp whispers and hisses calling after her.

A young boy was listening raptly to something Jorah was saying. Two others looked on, greedily chewing their dinners and watching the knight. Arya cleared her throat and the entire table looked up at her.

"Mormont," she greeted him.

"Stark." He didn't bow his head. Instead, he picked up his spoon and kept eating.

She narrowed her eyes. "Most people call me Lady Arya when they first meet me."

"I've known enough strong women to know better. I'd call you Night King Slayer, but that might get confusing. Tell me: what's it like knowing thousands of men will name their children after you?"

"I don't care." Arya pulled her dagger from her belt and toyed with it.

One of the young guards grew bored and slid off the bench, trotting to more interesting ventures. The others followed.

Jorah didn't try to hide his lopsided grin. "It seems you've frightened the guards."

Arya raised an eyebrow. The dagger glinted in the candlelight and she liked the effect. "My sister and I didn't get along growing up. I hated her pretty dresses and nice manners." She flicked a hangnail with the blade and smiled when it cut clean off. Not a droplet of blood spilled. "Now we're close."

"I swore fealty to House Stark."

"Again," Arya added. "You swore it to my father already. That didn't seem to mean much."

"That was my father," Jorah replied. "This time House Mormont swore to House Stark on _my _word. I'm a man of my word, King Slayer."

Arya tried not to laugh at the name. "I trained with the Faceless Men. I'm No One."

Jorah leaned forward. "I'd lead with the Night King thing. The people of Westeros don't know enough of the faceless men to fear them as much as they should."

Arya studied his face. "You do?"

He nodded. "I've traveled many places, read many texts. Faceless men, wargs, Three Eyed Ravens, kings and wardens all in one house."

"I like you." Arya sheathed her dagger. "Don't make me kill you."

* * *

Sansa hesitated outside the door. How things changed. The chambers were hers as a child, and now they housed a knight. She rapped on the door and slowly opened it when a voice bid her enter.

Ser Jorah was stretched on the bed reading by candlelight. "Sansa." He shut the book and made to stand, but she waved him off, closing the door behind her.

She held up a tin of salve. Sam hadn't asked a single question when she showed up at the infirmary and asked for it. "I knew you wouldn't go to the maester." She noted that he'd had the walker and wheelchair removed. Irritation and affection flared for the stubborn knight. "If you won't take care of yourself, I'll have to do it. Take off your shirt."

He drew away as she knelt on the mattress beside him. "I'm perfectly capable-"

"Hush," Sansa snapped. "You do everything for everyone and accept nothing in return. It won't kill you to have someone help you out just this once. It's my fault for running into you earlier."

Knowing he wouldn't win the battle, Jorah reluctantly pulled off his shirt and allowed Sansa to look over the wounds. She took her time tending to them. As bizarre as it was to realize, Sansa was becoming quite familiar with his body. Her stitches were holding fast in his shoulder.

She looked up and nearly jumped when her nose brushed against Jorah's. He didn't recoil from her. Instead, he held his breath and looked into her eyes. Always so solemn, his eyes were pale green flecked with blue. Sansa marveled at them before her eyes looked down to his lips. One of Jorah's hands settled on her waist. Hers were already pressed against his bare chest. How they got there, she couldn't recall. She lingered there a moment longer. And another. Neither of the moved an inch. Unafraid, Sansa let her eyes flutter closed.

It was then Sansa realized she was in completely uncharted waters. No one had ever kissed her well or gently. Everyone who had kissed her was dead.

In a flurry of commotion and noise, the door burst open, nearly torn from its hinges. Jorah pulled Sansa onto the bed behind him, lunged for his sword and had it in his hands before he realized who was standing before him.

"Mormont!"

Jorah sighed and Sansa pressed her hand to her pounding heart.

Tormund had a horn of ale in his hand and a wicked smile on his face. "I knew those dead cunts wouldn't kill a Mormont." He sucked his teeth for a moment. "Your old man was a dick, though."

Chuckling, Jorah sheathed his sword and sat up straighter on the bed. "Jeor Mormont was a hard man."

A direwolf snuffled at the rug on the floor, then rested his head on the mattress, hoping for attention. Sansa reached out and patted his snout.

"Jon's dog?" Jorah asked as the beast trotted back to Tormund and sat by his feet.

Tormund scratched Ghost between the ears. "My dog now. This fucker can take down a moose. Doesn't like to share, though." As if he was just seeing Sansa, Tormund exclaimed "ah!" and wiggled his eyebrows at Jorah. "The wolf queen." He mocked a bow. "Don't go fucking yourself to death, Mormont. I've seen a man do it after battle. Ah," he sighed. "But what a way to go." He took a long drink of ale, looked Sansa up and down, then nodded. "I'm going to go find the big woman."

Ghost trotted out of the room behind him. The door slammed shut behind them.

Sansa was rolling her eyes when Jorah chuckled. "He won't stay quiet about seeing you here so late, you know."

She scoffed. "Wildlings are incorrigible. No one will believe him. Half your skin is being held together by thread."

Indignant, Jorah held his tongue and bit his tongue.

Sansa giggled. "Sorry." She turned back to the tin of salve. Her heart was hammering and her skin flushed. Grateful for the work as a distraction,she moved closer and finished spreading the salve where it was needed. A few of the smaller cuts had started to heal and seal up. Only the deepest still oozed. "I'll have to tell Sam Tarly he was right. He thought I would be a good emissary." A coy smile was at her lips. "You must be a bad patient if the maester's only choice is to send the lady to deal with you."

Jorah jutted out his chin. "Perhaps that was my intention all along."

"Lord Mormont," Sansa scolded him playfully.

"I'm no lord," he reminded her.

"You could be. What I need," Sansa said, running a finger along the top of the salve and then down his shoulder, "is a strong lord who knows those people and knows what he's doing." She pretended not to notice the explosion of goosebumps down his forearm.

"I won't take Bear Island." Jorah's voice was firm but soft. "It's a good bargaining chip. You'll need it when the men return from King's Landing. The entire North will need to be restructured. It's cold and hard, but it's a good land. Give it to a Karstark. You can't offer me that honor."

"If this insolence is your fealty, I'm not sure I want it," Sansa said in mock disapproval. She screwed the lid back on and set the tin on the bedside table. The sudden exhilarating chill in the air made her glance at the hearth. The flames swayed merrily.

"What _do_ you want?" Jorah's voice was a purr. "I swore to serve you."

Sansa's breath caught between her breasts. Her mouth went dry. She knew what she wanted. Tormund would talk and rumors were already swirling, anyway. It wasn't like she was a child sneaking around with the butcher's boy. No one was selling her or trading her, using her to advance or secure station. She was the Lady of Winterfell and she wanted a kind, gentle man in her bed.

She wet her lips and looked back at Jorah. He watched her patiently, his lips parted slightly and gaze all desire. Ten years ago she dreamed of a knight looking at her like this.

She traced an old scar across his bicep. A thousand tales wove themselves, imaginary origins for the wound. Anything could have happened to him. A soldier, a knight, a lord, an exile, a sellsword - he'd lived enough adventures to have a hundred songs written about him. But now he was looking at her with the reverence she imagined many men saved for the wonders of the world.

Without a word Sansa deftly unlaced the back of her dress, never taking her eyes from him.

"Sansa." His voice was all wonder and regret. "A thousand suitors would line up if you-"

"I don't want a thousand suitors." She slid the gown off her shoulders. It flipped down over her hips and hung there.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You deserve someone young, handso-"

She touched his chin and turned his face up to behold her. "I seem to recall you vowing to obey my word. Are we going to have problems between us, Lord Mormont?"

A grin lit up his face. His hands settled on her waist. "No, my lady," he answered, his voice liquid velvet that wrapped around her. "Allow me to prove it to you, if that's what you truly ask of me."

She settled her hands on his, then dragged them down her body, catching her gown and pushing it over her hips until it slid down her legs and pooled around her ankles. Jorah held her gaze for a moment longer before admiring the rest of her.

Fleeting insecurity flared. The care, the pace, it was all new. Being _seen_ instead of gawked at was more intimate than she could have ever imagined. Sansa stumbled to recover. "I may not be the dragon queen, but-"

Jorah cut her off. "I don't want you to be."

That night he murmured only her name, even as she cried out and fell onto the bed time and time again, sweating and trembling in a delighted mix of pleasure and exhaustion.


	7. Betrayal

Sunshine hit Jorah square in the face. Cursing the east facing window, he reached for the second pillow to pull over his eyes. His muscles ached and his eyelids seemed made of lead. The exhaustion was akin to that of post-battle.

His fingers crawled across the mattress and found nothing. He squinted into the light. Instead of the spare pillow, he found a shock of red hair illuminated by the sunshine. The sight jarred him awake.

_So it wasn't a dream. _Sansa was sleeping beside him, one of her legs was crossed over his and her long fingers twisted around his wrist as if to keep him there with her. She'd nestled against his good shoulder, idly tracing her fingertips over his chest and speaking softly until the early morning. Before he fell asleep, he looked at the soft smile at her lips and felt a pang of sorrow, knowing she'd be gone when he woke.

But here she was, entwined with him even as the sun crept higher into the morning. _Could it be?_ He pushed the notion away and replaced them with more reasonable thoughts. Her flirtations were merely out of boredom or madness as they waited for the next wave of battle or whatever lie ahead.

He reached over and tenderly touched a strand of the glowing ruby hair. A thought slammed through his mind and he nearly drew back his hand. _What if Daenerys saw you now? _He didn't have to ponder on the answer. She'd fly into a fit of rage, kill Sansa, and command him repent for his sins. He sighed. Hadn't it always been that way? Daenerys didn't want him, but she didn't intend to let anyone else have him, either.

They were the perfect song of ice and fire.

Lady Sansa didn't bother hiding her affection for him; coming by at all hours of the night, marching into his room and falling into such ease in his presence. Even last night, she looked at him as if he were the only man in the world, her eyes boring into his and examining his very soul.

Jorah caught himself and forced the thought out once again. Lady Sansa Stark had no business with an exiled knight.

The sunlight reached her face and she squinted before stirring. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. "Am I late for anything?" her muffled voice came.

He briefly considered feigning sleep, but decided to face the music. "No, my lady. It _is _late."

Tossing her hair back, she rolled onto her side and smiled at him. "Are _you _late for anything? I didn't mean to keep you up so late." She yawned widely and nestled closer to him, pulling a fur over her bare breasts. Her hand traced gingerly over his scars and wounds. "All the stitches held!" she marveled, laughing in disbelief. "I tried to be gentle."

"Tarly would have looked the other way and sewn me back up," Jorah chuckled. His hand found her lower back. It didn't go unnoticed how perfectly she fit against him.

"Or I could have told him I've been questioning you _very _thoroughly. Common practice with outsiders." Giggling, Sansa rolled out of his embrace and straddled his lap. The fur slid back onto the bed. "You know how we northerners are with outsiders."

Her skin was porcelain, like bright white snow in the sunlight. Jorah exhaled in wonder and simply beheld her. "I'm a northman," he finally managed.

"You've been gone a very long time, Ser Jorah." Sansa smirked down at him. "You may need to convince me." She arched her back and used her slender fingers to steady herself on his thighs.

"Sansa," he breathed. He hesitated, his hands resting on her waist. Doubt flickered again. Things felt more ridiculous in the daylight. She was clever and kind, a benevolent ruler and beautiful to boot. The Maiden herself would smite Sansa down for fear of competition. Why should the Lady of Winterfell bother herself with him?

He searched her face for an answer.

Completely unconcerned and unbothered, she gracefully folded down and cut him off with a kiss. "I can find another way to determine your authenticity as a northerner, if you prefer. I promise they won't be as fun."

He _hmm_ed in surrender as she dragged her lips down his throat and rolled her hips against him.

A sharp rap on the door jarred them apart a few minutes later.

Still panting, Sansa grabbed his shirt from the floor and pulled it over her head. It barely covered the tops of her thighs.

"Sansa," Jorah warned her. "You can't be seen-"

"I'm not ashamed," she interrupted. "Are you?"

Jorah only had time to throw the blankets over his lap before Sansa threw the door open.

Ser Brienne's fist was still raised, poised to knock. She stared at the low cut shirt and the swell of Sansa's cleavage. "My lady? I was looking for-" Her voice fell away as she peered into the room.

Jorah held her gaze. _Here I stand._

The knight's ire cut through him. If she had a sword, Jorah was certain she'd have stormed the room and cut him down there in bed.

"Ser Jorah will be free later this morning." Sansa smiled. "Unless you needed him for something I'm not aware of."

"N-no." The knight stood gaping for words. Finally, she gave a curt nod and turned.

* * *

Jon was summoned to the queen midevening. Grey Worm smirked as he passed through the doorway, one of few that were still standing.

A empty bottle of wine sat upon a window ledge. Daenerys leaned beside it, he fingers curled around the bricks tightly. Instead of gazing up at the stars, she was staring out into the ruin.

"Your Grace."

Her voice was flat. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"Is what a joke?" Jon's voice was harsher than he intended. He immediately checked it and took a deep breath. "Your Grace," he added in a more pleasant tone.

Daenerys whipped around, her eyes narrow. "This." She marched forward and thrust a piece of parchment to him, half crushing it in her grasp. She watched hungrily as he flattened the paper and began to read.

He didn't immediately recognize the script.

_Ser Jorah Mormont has sworn allegiance and his heart to Lady Sansa Stark, Queen in the North. _

Jon stared at the note and reread it. Then he reread it again. He couldn't make any sense of it. He didn't know the writer or their intention. He didn't know why Jorah would swear for Sansa or who would name her Queen in the North. Daenerys was watching, her anger palpable. He had no idea which part she wanted him to react to. Hoping to quell her anger, he forced a smile. "He's alive!" he exclaimed. "Sam did it again. Jorah's going to owe him an ale every day for the rest of his life. That's twice now."

"No," Daenerys answered sharply. "He'd never do this to me. Jorah is dead. Dead and your sister is trying to manipulate me." She bared her teeth. "I told you this would happen. I told you to rein her in." Her nostrils flared. "_Queen in the North._ The instant we left she rallied her people and declared herself queen?" She stormed to the door.

"Dany, please!" Jon caught her by the elbow. He fluttered the parchment between them. "This isn't Sansa's writing. There's no seal. This could be anything. If Jorah is alive, you know as well as me he'll be riding here as soon as he can."

"But he isn't here, is he?"

His head swam and he grasped for anything to keep her. "Maybe he's unwell and intends to remain in the North. Sansa needs lords to help rebuild. Entire houses were-"

The queen wrenched her arm away. "If he's alive, then I must go to him. Traitors are not to be tolerated. Tell me, didn't your father behead men who broke their vows?" Daenerys pulled on her gloves and pushed past Jon. "He vowed to serve _me _until his last breath. If he's still breathing, he belongs to me. If Sansa thinks she can take him from me-"

"Don't!" Jon snapped.

She spun back, eyes ablaze. "What did you say to your queen?"

"Don't. Don't fly North." He held her gaze. "All that remains there are women, children, and the wounded. Don't do it. They've suffered enough."

Her lip twitched again. "You don't trust me to talk to your sister? Jorah Mormont is _my _knight and if he has sworn to serve your sister, it is treason. If it's a simple misunderstanding, I'll find that out."

"Daenerys!" he called helplessly.

* * *

Pod had a mouth full of food when her reported for guard duty, and a sack full of more. One of the baker girls was fond of him, and he was fond of the tarts and pastries.

Brienne was standing at her post, gazing skyward.

"Wishing on a star, or waiting for a raven?" Pod joked. "You'll never see one in the dark."

Brienne tightened her grip on her sword and smiled. "That or something bigger."


	8. Arrival

Arya was bored. Nothing happened in Winterfell without her knowing about it. The problem was that nothing much was happening in Winterfell at all.

She sparred with Brienne. She showed basic swordplay to the young guards. When the snow blew, she went down and practiced archery. That was once her favorite hobby, but now the thought of Gendry Baratheon drove her nearly mad. Maybe she'd remedy that after the war. Maybe.

Since slaying the Night King, the children looked at her like she was a hero and the women looked at her like she was dangerous. That was fine by her. Arya didn't care for small talk much anyway.

When Sansa emerged in the hall for dinner, Arya pounced on her. "What are we going to do?" she demanded, startling Sansa enough that she jostled her tankard and slopped ale onto the floor.

Sansa stared at her. "What are you talking about?"

Arya stared right back, giving her most incredulous look to match her sister's. "I'm tired of waiting for Jon's word." She drew Needle and made a few elaborate movements. The steel slashed through the air, swishing with each flick and arc. "What do you think he's going to do?"

Both Stark girls knew the possibilities were finite. Jon either killed Daenerys or was roasted in a belch of dragonfire. In the game of thrones, you won or you died. There was no room for a contender who didn't want to play.

Sansa's solemn expression echoed the thought. "Ser Jorah said Jon wasn't safe as long as he's a threat to her claim. He knows how to survive. He knows what he has to do."

Frowning, Arya muttered, "The lone wolf dies."

Sansa met her gaze and offered her little sister fiery resolve. "But the pack survives."

* * *

The night was cold. Far colder than any other rides had been.

Drogon didn't mind. He stretched his wings and climbed high above the clouds, intrigued by the bright orb far above. Could he reach it? Was it a big spot of dragonfire? The eye of a dragon? One day he'd find out. When the eerie cold light began to watch him too closely, he spread his wings and soared for a while, dropping lower and lower until he could taste the lake water or pick up a goat. He didn't, though. There was serious business afoot. He could always tell when they were on their way to something serious.

The flight was lonely. He missed his brothers screeching and flapping alongside him. He missed many things. He missed the warm desert, singing with his brothers, riding in their basket when they were small, taking meat from the hand of the kind man, chin scratches from mother's friends, and watching his mother smile. She didn't smile much anymore.

Winterfell wasn't far away now. He'd treat himself to a fat cow somewhere to make up for the sadness.

* * *

Gilly was pleased to be happy and healthy. Her first pregnancy was nothing but morning sickness that lasted all day and fear that Kraster would want her again. Little Sam was a good boy though, so she tried to be thankful for that dark part of her life. It all had a silver lining.

Little Sam was curious about everything. They sat on a bench and watched Arya train with Ser Brienne. His eyes were bright as he watched every move.

"Maybe one day you'll be a knight for House Stark," Gilly explained as Little Sam picked up a stick and held it in his chubby fingers. "You're too little to fight yet. I promise your father will teach you when you're older." She thought better, then smiled. "Or maybe Lady Arya would teach you if you're very good."

The sparring ended with Arya beating Brienne once again. Laughing, the pair headed back inside just as snowflakes began to swirl in the air. The cold was refreshing. It was different that a cold drafty castle. The crispness was enough to wake up the senses and really make a person feel alive. Little Sam didn't seem to mind, so Gilly inhaled and simply enjoyed the afternoon.

Guards on the walls shouted. Gilly looked up, wondering what they were seeing. She hoped the men were returning home from war. It was quiet and lonely with so many people gone away. She just wanted the war to be over already.

"Come here," Gilly said, taking Little Sam's hand and guiding him up the stairs. She peered over the wall, hoping to see Jon Snow or Ser Davos. The grounds were all empty and she squinted again in confusion. What _were _the guards so excited about?

Little Sam patted her hand and pointed to the sky excitedly.

"I know you want to go adventuring," Gilly said, kneeling down. "We have to stay put here where it's safe until the war's done. Lady Stark will tell us when it's safe. It's not so bad in the castle. Besides, Sam's a maester. That's very important work. Maybe if you don't want to be a knight you can be a maester. What do you say to that?"

Still, his finger jerked frantically to the sky.

Gilly followed his finger and gasped. It was a dragon.

* * *

Brienne used to love council meetings. When the lords and ladies had ideas, they looked to her to confirm whether they were possible or safe. Putting her expertise to use and keeping her loved ones safe was more satisfying than anything on earth.

Council meetings were different now. So many empty chairs. With the lords at King's Landing awaiting Jon's order, the table was made up of Stark girls and two knights. One of them, Brienne thought as her blood boiled, belonged in the cells. She glared at Ser Jorah, sitting tall beside Lady Sansa. He had no place here and the Stark girls were acting like he was an old friend.

Arya was speaking when Jorah finally met her glare. Her lip twitched and he glowered in return.

"What's wrong?" Sansa interrupted, glancing between the two.

Brienne shook her head. "Nothing you haven't already been informed of, my lady. I'm sorry, Lady Arya. Please." Arya spoke again and Brienne could feel the exile knight's piercing stare. She did everything she could to focus on the topic at hand.

Arya was grim. "It's been too long. We'd know by now if something happened. He would have sent word." She fidgeted with the hilt of her sword, antsy to _do _something.

Brienne smiled. Arya was a fighter, not a planner or organizer. With a bit more polishing, the girl would take over the world, Brienne had no doubt.

Sansa stared at the map of Westeros spread before them. "We need to prepare our defenses just in case."

"I propose we go south to assist Jon," Brienne said. "Arya and I will go. We're up to the task at hand." Though she was proposing treason, no one as much as flinched. She hesitated. "Mormont will come, too."

That finally elicited a remark from him. "I won't leave Sansa unguarded," Jorah said gruffly. "There's no one here but child guards and cooks."

Brienne rolled her eyes. "You should have died. What good would you be if Daenerys Targaryen showed up on a dragon?"

Jorah stood and leaned on the table. "I'd be the best person in the _world _to talk to her."

Brienne stood and stretched across the table so they were nose to nose. "We are _well beyond _talking to her."

Arya scooted her chair forward, unimpressed with the showdown. "It doesn't matter what happens here. You can't defend Winterfell against a dragon. You don't know what it's like. Winterfell would be gone in a minute." The urgency on her face told her tale.

"Beg your pardon, but we can." Brienne reached into her jerkin and pulled out a drawing. She sat and spread it out across the table. "Before he left, Ser Jaime gave me plans for building a scorpion in case relations with the dragon queen soured." She glared at Jorah again and he sat down as well. "I had the smiths build one as a prototype. It works. Another is being created as we speak."

Sansa leaned forward and looked at the diagram in interest.

"This is what Euron Greyjoy used to kill the second dragon." Brienne nodded. "Man the scorpions here and allow us to go join Jon."

Jorah spoke again, his voice calmer than before. "Drogon is the largest of the dragons and the smartest, as well. The Lannisters killed Rhaegal with one of these? Daenerys won't make the same mistake twice."

Brienne didn't hide her sneer. "Yes. That's exactly what you want us to think. Leave Winterfell undefended. Leave you with Lady Sansa."

Sansa sighed like a mother at her wit's end. "He knows her better than anyone. If he says it won't work, it won't work."

Brienne's nostrils flared. "And you trust his word? The word of a man?" Tears stung her eyes but she refused to let them fall. Her heart ached every day. If even Ser Jaime was no better than a dog, why would this man be any better? Everything was playing out the same. A knight loyal to another queen showed up and wooed her, bedded her, and would leave and betray her. Brienne's throat burned at the memory. Jaime was so cold, so cold all of the sudden after he had been so warm and king.

She refused to let that heartbreak come to Lady Sansa. She refused to let Jorah open the doors of Winterfell to the Targaryen girl.

"I trust him." Sansa didn't look away. "Besides, Tormund and the wildlings are here to rebuild in exchange for Jon's men rebuilding the wall when they return. If something happened, they'd defend Winterfell because they'd be defending themselves."

"They fashion themselves Free Folk," Jorah reminded her gently.

Sansa nodded. "Free Folk," she repeated. "That's right."

Brienne stood again. Her chair scooted back and clattered to the floor. "Stop it! He's no better than any other man. Being a knight doesn't mean anything." She turned to Jorah, who was watching with mild interest but not much concern. "I see what you're doing. You may be fooling them, but I know exactly what you are."

A screech overhead immediately silenced her.

Brienne glanced to Arya, whose face had gone pale. Sansa was watching her sister, her jaw hanging slack. Ser Jorah was already halfway to the door.


	9. Reveal

"Sam! Sam!" Little Sam was at her heels as Gilly raced to the infirmary. "Sam!" Maids glanced at her, then went back to their work. They'd understand soon.

All of this switching between who was good and who was bad was confusing. At first she was raised to hate anyone but her sisters. Then she learned to hate Kraster. After that came the White Walkers, Wildings, the golden queen, the dragon queen. It got hard to keep track of. The dragon circling above seemed an immediate threat, though.

Gilly threw open the door. "Sam!"

Sam looked up from a sick child. "Yes? A little busy, but yes?"

"She's here." Gilly panted to catch her breath. She pointed in the general direction of the courtyard. "Out there."

"Who's here?" Sam peered behind her. He offered a goofy smile to Little Sam.

A dragon's cry answered, echoing through the stone halls and reverberating around the room. Little Sam held onto her skirts, a fistful of material in each hand, but didn't cry.

"Oh," Sam replied, sitting up straighter and nervously reaching for the sword he no longer wore. "I see."

* * *

His old armor was gone, likely burned with the rubbish after the battle with the dead. In its place Jorah found new black leather armor, new and untested. He hoped to keep it that way. Truly, it was fancier than he dared wear. A large silver bear sigil was engraved in the middle and he assumed Sansa had something to do with it.

Heart thudding hart enough to make him feel ill, Jorah strapped the pieces and parts on as quickly as he could. They might not do much against dragonfire, but they made him feel better. Physical battle was one thing. Put him in a tourney, melee, gladiator match, duel – he would come out just fine. Pit him against the woman he once loved? Jorah had no idea what would come of it.

_Will she hear reason? Will she understand?_

Jorah grabbed the sword he'd used to save Daenerys Targaryen's life and headed to the courtyard to learn whether he would need it to defend himself against her.

* * *

Tormund heard the big woman shouting frantic orders, but he didn't comprehend any of them. He beamed at the sight of her. Hatred burned in her eyes and a sword gleamed in her hand. _My woman. _That blonde cunt Lannister had no right in treating her so badly. If Tormundhad a chance to love her, he'd never leave her, not even for a princess or a busty serving girl.

"Tormund!" Brienne called, motioning furiously in his direction.

"You know my name," he breathed. "_My _name?"

Brienne rolled her eyes and grabbed him by the sleeve. "Get the free folk to the walls! The dragon queen is here! Defend the castle!"

"The dragon queen? Is something chasin' her?" Tormund asked as he followed behind Brienne. "I thought she was your queen now." The big woman shot him a glance and he grabbed a sword. "Didn't Jon Snow just go to fight another queen with this queen?"

She groaned in annoyance. "Yes, but just please, defend Winterfell!"

Tormund nodded. "Anything for you."

* * *

Drogon was sitting outside the gate, snuffling the air and grumbling. The dragons always seemed to Jorah nothing more than massive cats. He was pleased to see the beast on the ground, but Drogon could take to the sky again in seconds.

He moved forward, staring out the gate. There was no army on the horizon. No Dothraki. No Unsullied.

The dragon spotted Jorah and flicked his massive tail back and forth. It was a friendly greeting. So he did still recognize friends.

"Raise the gate," Jorah called.

The young guard peered down in terror, but did as he was told. Jorah couldn't blame him. Word of Daenerys's deeds spread through Winterfell quickly, and likely the rest of the realm. Where she craved love there would be only fear. One tyrant fell just to be replaced by another.

He should have known. Of her companions, Jorah Mormont should have known what Daenerys Targaryen was capable of. He gritted his teeth. Love blinded him to her cruelty. Time after time she burned men alive. She crucified masters. What were the crimes of the burned? Slavery, mistreatment of women, sure, but they were cultural differences that Daenerys tore down and left in shambles before moving on. How many lives were disrupted but not rebuilt?

He could still hear the screaming of the khals burning alive.

Jorah took a deep breath and steeled himself. This woman – queen – was not the girl who asked questions of him in the Red Waste as they rode side by side for days at a time. He used to look forward to the long hours of discussion. There was nothing she kept secret from him; pouring out her fears and defeats through angry tears in those early years. Time and events hardened her, but perhaps the tainted Targaryen blood had her destiny set from her birth.

The gate clanked upward until it locked in place. Wildlings shifted on what was left of the walls, uncertain why they were taking up arms against the silver haired woman.

Jorah wondered the same. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask her. Most of them began with _why? _For his own soul, he wanted to know if he could have stopped her. Had he been quicker on the battlefield, had he dodged the killing blow and been there to advise her, would she have razed King's Landing?

Drogon cried out. A young guard whined in terror.

Jorah suddenly knew the truth. A thousand hours of his counsel wouldn't have changed a thing. A Targaryen with their mind made up would never abandon passion for reason.

A thousand words swirled in Jorah's mind and none of them sounded right. Now he was worried the wrong greeting would unleash a rain of flame upon him. She was certainly changed. He may as well be greeting a stranger.

In the field, Drogon knelt forward to allow her to dismount.

Jorah strode through the gate and out to meet her.

* * *

Sansa held her breath and Arya's hand. Brienne stood guard at her side, sword drawn and gleaming.

Sansa had waited for battles, wars, and for brothers that would never return. For a time she considered herself skilled at waiting, but this was different. Jorah Mormont needed to return to her. She'd come to know his boots on the floor and scent on a pillow. His cloak was the right length for her. The soft growl of his voice soothed her.

"Let him prove his worth," Brienne snarled as Jorah disappeared through the gate.

Sansa ignored her. Her knees went weak and vision swam. House Stark already lost so much. _She _lost so much. She couldn't bear losing one person more, especially when he was the knight she dreamed of since she was a girl.

* * *

Drogon purred a greeting as Jorah marched toward him. The warm breath blew past him like a putrid breeze.

"Hello, you great brute," Jorah called out. "I didn't know if you'd remember me."

The dragon raised its head and Jorah prepared to see the violet eyes from his nightmare. Instead, brown eyes greeted him.

"Jon?" Jorah said as if to confirm it was realy him.

Jon Snow patted Drogon on the neck and strode forward. "Where's Sansa?" he replied brusquely.

"Inside," Jorah said. He glanced at the dragon. There were no other riders. "Where's Daenerys?"

Sounding exhausted as he looked, Jon threw out his hands. "I don't know. She meant to come burn Winterfell to the ground. I beat her to the dragon and didn't look back." He pulled a piece of parchment from inside his robes and offered it. "Who sent this?"

"We've been waiting your word," Jorah said as he accepted the letter. It was wrinkled and folded as if crushed in a fist and smoothed back out. "Who wrote it?"

"That's what I meant to ask you."

The script was unfamiliar to him, but the names jumped out with startling familiarity.

_Ser Jorah Mormont has sworn allegiance and his heart to Lady Sansa Stark, Queen in the North._

Jorah's gut churned. "Daenerys read this?"

"She's going to kill all of us." Whether Jon's voice was hoarse from the long flight in the cold air, or emotion Jorah couldn't tell. "Me," Jon boomed. "You. Sansa. I saw babies burnt alive in their mothers' arms. The bells were ringing. They were ringing in surrender. They threw down their swords." He ran a gloved hand over his face. "She won't stop until there's nothing left to rule over. She meant to fly to Dorne, but someone sent this and now she's going to kill the only family I ever knew."

Jorah nodded. "You best come inside."


	10. Midnight

In all his time with Jon Snow, Tormund still didn't understand southern folk. If something needed done, they had to talk and talk about it. He sighed. Were they doing things his way, the problem would have been solved and he'd be celebrating with the big woman.

She was the reason he agreed to join the council meeting. The wolf girl said his input was valuable since they'd need the free folk and he spoke for them. Tormund scoffed, but joined anyway. They needed help. He wasn't one to leave a friend in a tough spot.

He watched the big woman. She wasn't herself. Sitting in her chair quietly, she stared at her hands or her goblet or anything but the others. She _especially _didn't look at him, but Tormund understood. This didn't seem to be a time for physical attraction to distract her. He couldn't blame her.

No one was talking so his gaze wandered back to her. The beautiful knight was afraid of something, but he couldn't tell what. Snow? He was little. The ginger girl? She wasn't a fighter. The wheelchair boy? He was weird, but not threatening. The little Stark? Tormund nodded. He was afraid of her, too. His big woman was right to be afraid.

Finally, she broke the silence. "I sent it. It was me. I meant for Jon to see it. It was a warning."

The Stark girls sighed and looked troubled. Mormont didn't look like anything affected him, as usual. The Stark boy sat there silently. Snow, on the other hand, didn't like what he heard and leaned forward, an unfriendly look pointed at the big woman. Tormund straightened. No one would harm his woman as long as he was there to defend her.

The big woman drew a breath and tried again. "If something happened here, Jon needed to know who was behind the treachery." She glanced at Mormont. Her mouth continued moving, but no sound came out. Finally, she blurted, "He's _with her! _Why do none of you see that?"

"You nearly got everyone here killed," Sansa said, her voice cold.

Jon joined in. "You heard what she did and thought it was best to provoke her?" He brought his fist down on the table. "You have no idea what she's capable of."

Brienne glanced at Jorah. "He does."

"Enough," Sansa snapped. "At least now we don't have to wonder where her next move will be. It will be Winterfell."

Tormund stood. "The dragon queen's going to come here?" He drew his sword. "I killed those dead fuckers. One living girl is no problem. We'll kill her and be done with it."

Everyone stared at him, so he sat back down. _Southerners._

Snow sighed. "There's no time for this infighting." He rubbed his brow, then glanced at Jorah with a tired expression. "Ser Jorah. Are you here to give Winterfell over to Daenerys?"

"No," Mormont replied gruffly. "Last I knew, we were all on the same side." He glanced a Brienne, an eyebrow quirked. "I woke up and suddenly I was named a traitor."

The big woman huffed. "I am only trying to fulfill my vow to-"

"It's over," Jon cut her off. She pursed her lips and he ignored her. "The real threat is in King's Landing and now you can be sure she'll be coming north."

"I thought you were going to kill her," Sansa said matter of factly.

Tormund narrowed his eyes. "I thought you were fucking her? Now you're going to kill her?" He sat back and felt real sorrow for the crow. "Must feel like your ginger girl all over again."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. Jon glared in his direction. Maybe Tormund said too much.

Mormont frowned. "I've seen her separated from her children. She won't wait much longer for you to bring Drogon back."

"Are you well enough to fly?" Snow asked.

Tormund burst into laughter. "Mormont? He ain't very good. I don't know where you were when the dragon queen came up north, but I saved his life. Isn't that right, Mormont? He almost fell off the dragon." Tormund kicked his feet up on the table and roared with laughter. "You southern fuckers can't do much of anything without the free folk saving your asses."

No one looked grateful. Worse, the big woman hadn't even looked at him. Southern council meetings were the worst.

* * *

Grey Worm didn't report to Daenerys. He didn't need to. He knew what she needed of him.

A Lannister soldier in golden lion armor stumbled from the rubble. Dust and soot covered him head to toe. He looked like a ghost. Grey Worm thrust his spear into the man's heart. Now he _was _a ghost.

A ghost like the woman he loved.

The thought made his chest ache. Grey Worm pulled his bloody spear free from the dead Lannister man. There was more work to do. As long as one Lannister lived, Missandei's murderers ran free. He would hunt them across every corner of the earth. He would put his spear through every heart.

That didn't seem necessary, though. Patrols through the city were dull. The men were weak and easy to capture and punish. Each one of them deserved the same fate as his beloved Missandei. Capture. Torture. Fear. Humiliation. Murder. He had special plans for these prisoners, but the queen wouldn't allow it. Instead, Daenerys was soft and gentle and allowed them a swift death. Grey Worm wished she was a more stern ruler. That would probably come in time, he consoled himself. She was still learning. Until then, he would do the work.

* * *

Podrick was used to silent guard duties. In the early years he tried to get conversation out of Brienne, but she was always loath to give it. For a long while he assumed she hated him, but now he knew this was just her way. Occasionally she'd look proud of something he did, or she wouldn't scowl when he sparred. It was enough. He could have had a worse time as a squire. Some knights were real cunts. Not her.

Brienne sat with her back against the wall, a thousand yard stare not really guarding much at all. Pod wasn't surprised. He couldn't remember the last time she slept.

"I'll take this one," he offered. "Why don't you get some sleep?"

The knight shook her head. "No. I have plenty to consider to keep me awake. Thank you, Podrick."

He studied her and considered holding his tongue. Brienne didn't seem like she could get more glum. He took a shot. "I get why you sent that letter," he offered.

She swallowed and stared past him.

Another of her classic tricks, Pod noted. He would have been more amused if she hadn't been so heartsick the past weeks. "I've been with you for years now. I know you better than anyone here. You only meant to take care of the people here." When she still refused to acknowledge him further, Pod pulled out the big weapon. "That wildling seems to believe you."

She sighed. "Go to sleep, Podrick."

* * *

It was late when Sansa retired to her chambers.

They spent the after dinner hours in the solar discussing their options for battle, just the Stark children. Afterward they chatted about childhood and their wolves, their adventures and travels. Bran didn't say anything, but she was still pleased to have him there. It felt almost like the family was all together. There would always be missing spots, but it was close as it could ever be again.

Praying sleep came easy, Sansa swung her door open. She leaned against it as it swung shut. She was confident in Jon's resolve to put an end to Daenerys's reign of terror. He wasn't leaving until tomorrow. Drogon needed to rest before the flight back. Understandably, she thought bitterly. Burning down a city must be exhausting.

Each thought was more distressing than the last. Sansa sighed. If she couldn't sleep tonight with the Starks all safe in one place, she certainly wouldn't be able to sleep in the coming days.

"Lady Sansa."

She startled, then quickly caught her breath.

Jorah was sitting at her writing desk, a candle burning and a book in his hands. "Forgive me," he said quickly. He closed the book and stood. "I only wanted a moment. If Brienne's suspicion put doubt in your mind, let me answer to it. I couldn't let you fall asleep wondering about my loyalty." He bowed his head.

"That's not necessary." Sansa unlaced her gown, eager to be rid of it.

Jorah averted his eyes as her fingers worked up the gown, but she didn't care. There was nothing secret between them anymore.

She cursed at a knot and turned to the mirror. "Brienne means well," Sansa continued. "But she's behaving like a little girl. Ser Jaime stayed behind with her after everyone rode south. After a few days he rode south too. It broke her heart."

Jorah inclined his head in understanding. "Perhaps it isn't all heartbreak. I would suspect her if this were Dragonstone and she took a sudden interest in Daenerys. Her heart's in the right place."

"Well, I trust you." She looked at her reflection. What would her mother say if she saw her now? Sansa knew she'd be proud. Half Tully, half Stark: the Lady of Winterfell. Maybe this was always her fate. Something she didn't expect to see in her reflection was a northern knight just over her shoulder.

The confirmation seemed to ease his worry. He nodded. "Thank you, my lady. I'm flying south with Jon tomorrow. Waiting for Daenerys to come to her senses isn't an option. If Jon can't convince her to stop her conquest, I can talk to her blood riders, to the Unsullied. Grey Worm's been named her master of war. He trusts me."

Before she realized what was happening, angry tears spilled down Sansa's cheeks. She immediately hated herself for it. Arya made fun of her endlessly when they were younger for Sansa's frequent tears. This wasn't how a lady handled herself. She wiped her cheeks of the evidence, but the hot tears kept falling.

Jorah regarded her in earnest surprise. "Sansa?"

She swatted another tear away. "I thought you were going to be burned alive today." The words came out more harshly than she intended, but she didn't back down. If he was leaving again, maybe this was the only moment they'd have. "You didn't even say goodbye."

His face was all understanding and apology. "If I had to say goodbye to you, I'd never be able to leave."

The words didn't erase the bitter sting, but it did soften it some. "Is this you saying goodbye? You're leaving again," she said. "Putting yourself at her mercy."

Jorah didn't look away from her glare. "I would face her a thousand times rather than see her here again. She isn't fond of you. I can't protect you from dragonfire." Jorah reached for her and wiped one of her tears. "I rode with Khal Drogo's khalesaar before Daenerys's brother gave her to be his bride. I don't know anyone else in Westeros who speaks Dothraki. Maybe it's folly, but I have to try."

She knew he was right. Sansa sniffled and nodded against his shoulder. "I know." And she did. Sansa couldn't fathom anyone standing by idly. Any decent man would try to put an end to the carnage. There would be no telling Jon or Robb, her father, any of the northmen not to go. What did she expect? Sansa suddenly understood Brienne's heartbreak a little more. She held him tighter.

Jorah stroked her hair and swayed back and forth slightly. He stared to hum a cheery song she'd heard long ago - an old song of the north. His voice was low and smooth and it swept around her and warmed her better than any fur. She draped her arms around his neck and moved with him. Jorah moved a hand to the small of her back and gently took one of hers in the other. Still humming, he led her in a simple but lively dance. Her skirts twirled out around her ankles as he spun her. She laughed and wondered why no one in Winterfell ever taught her the steps. It had to be a jig from Bear Island.

"Promise you'll come back," Sansa blurted. "I can't watch another person I love go south and never return. Promise me you'll come back and teach me the words to that song."

Jorah stopped humming.

At first she wondered why he looked shocked, but then she replayed her words. _Another person I love_. There it was. She blushed. She hadn't meant to be so clumsy about it. She fumbled for something else to say, but the knight gave his head a slight shake.

He knelt before her and took her hand in his. His eyes locked on hers, he pressed his lips to the back of her hand. "I give you my word. I will come back to you. And if you'll have me, I'll marry you."


	11. Goodbyes and Greetings

It had been some years since Jorah had any semblance of a relationship, but he certainly didn't remember there being so little sleep involved. It had only been about an hour since Sansa fell asleep. He hadn't slept at all. The first hints of sunlight were painting the sky brilliant colors as he slid out of the bed and began lacing his boots. The long ride ahead and what waited in King's Landing would be torture, but he wouldn't trade even a moment of his time with Sansa for sleep.

He'd incur her wrath, but Jorah couldn't bring himself to wake Sansa. She'd suffered enough goodbyes and tearful exchanges. Even one more was too many. Besides, for selfish reasons he didn't dare wake her and fumble a farewell. Last night was perfect. If hearing his name on Sansa's lips as she fell asleep was the last memory he had of her before Daenerys Targaryen burned him alive, that was fine by him.

Careful not to make a sound, Jorah draped his cloak over her. In his days at Winterfell, she'd taken to wearing it whenever he wasn't. It was the first fine thing he bought for himself in years. The moment he arrived back in the north, he spent his coin on the cloak. He reminded him of his youth on Bear Island and made him feel a bit like the lord he once was. Now he imagined Sansa pulled it tighter around her in absence of his arms. She could keep it forever if it made her happy.

Jorah buckled on his belts and lingered at the desk. The long necklace Sansa always wore sat atop his book, discarded there as she undressed. A wolf's tooth wrought in silver caught his eye. That detail had gone unnoticed until now. He looped the chain around his own neck and tucked it into his shirt. He was sworn to House Stark. He should have some wolf token on his person. Besides, a knight always fought twice as fiercely with a woman's favor.

He couldn't put off his departure any longer. Jon would be waiting. Jorah paused at the door, memorizing the lines of Sansa's face, her slender fingers, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath. The sunlight finally spilled over the window and touched her hair. It blazed in the light.

The knight had no idea what the world would look like in the next day, week, month, but if the gods were merciful, he'd make good on his word and return to marry her.

* * *

Drogon perked up. That scent. He didn't expect to detect it here, but there was no mistaking it. A dragon never forgot a scent. He swished his tail. Mother's good man.

When the good man appeared, Drogon purred in delight. Mother would be pleased to know the good man was alive. She cried over his body at this very place some days ago. He cried too, and not just because Mother was.

Drogon couldn't remember a time without the good man. When he and his brothers were little, the good man let them ride on his shoulder instead of in their cages. The good man smiled when they sang. When Mother wasn't looking, the good man brought them snacks. He didn't even get mad the time Drogon accidentally puffed fire at him and burned his fingers. After all, he was just a baby learning. The good man laughed and patted him on the head and told him he was smart. Now the good was alive, and coming to see him. He purred again.

The other master appeared behind the good man and cooled his excitement.

Drogon didn't mind the other master. He smelled like Mother. Something in his blood was good. It was dragon blood. They were family. But other master flew him away from Mother. Mother liked the other master, too, but it was hard to tell why she didn't come along.

At least the good man was here. A thought occurred to Drogon. The good man was never far from Mother. Maybe he would take him back to her!

* * *

The screech of a dragon sent Sansa flailing from slumber. Bolt upright in bed, she panted for her breath and doubted whether she'd really heard something. It was probably just a dream. Heart still pounding, she collapsed back into the bed. A moment later she sat up again with a chilling realization. Jorah was gone. She threw the furs back and realized his cloak was among them.

"No," she muttered. "No, no, no." She threw the cloak over her shoulders and looked out the window. Sure enough, Drogon was climbing higher into the sky, taking Jon and Jorah away from the North again.

She heaved a sigh that quickly gave way to a sob.

It wasn't that she needed a man. She knew she didn't. If anything, they'd just caused her problems. There were just so few good men left in the world. Her father used to joke that his daughters would never marry to unite House Stark with any other houses because the best men were in the north and they already ruled it.

How right he was.

Sansa wiped at her tears and tried to push away the ache in her heart. She was so close. _So close _to what she always dreamed of as a girl. She had her family all in one place and Ser Jorah in her arms.

Outside the window the dragon grew smaller and smaller in the sky until he was gone. Sansa drew a trembling breath and sat. Year after year she kept the feelings pushed down, locked away. The Lady of Winterfell didn't need to be moping about after dead Starks or her own plight. Now wasn't the time to crumble. She was doing what she needed to do for her people. So were Jon and Jorah. They chose to risk their lives. Wasn't it their duty? Who was she to stop them? What was one fewer family member when she'd already lost so few? What was one more dead good man? The war already stole so many from the world.

None of it was true. She couldn't believe her own lies anymore. After all those long years, the dam finally broke. Every loss and hurt filed away and not properly dealt with came crashing to the surface so violently Sansa thought she might lose her sanity. The time of reckoning was here. She was a wolf. She was strong. But even wolves had to lick their wounds every now and again.

Father's beheading at the command of the boy prince she thought she loved. Robb's body paraded around with his wolf's head sewn on. Mother's throat slit to the bone. The fear in Rickon's face. Sansa wasn't sure if the true memories were worse, of if the scenes she conjured in her mind were. Her breath came in frantic gasps. Cersei's cruel stare. Ramsay's cruel touch. Littlefinger's cruel intentions. Jon and Jorah leaving her when everything was nearly perfect.

Suddenly she felt like a little girl again, crying over how politics ruined everything and spoiled her happiness.

* * *

Mormont seemed comfortable enough on the dragon. Well, Jon thought, as comfortable as someone could be on a dragon. They were riding side by side, both holding on to spikes and scales. There was no relaxing on the ride. Sleep was out of the question. Even a slight shift in the dragon's body could send them tumbling toward the earth below. How Daenerys rode everywhere, Jon had no idea. She was a full blooded Targaryen. Maybe that had something to do with it.

_Daenerys._ The thought of her sent Jon's stomach churning and his mind racing. Maester Aemon's words came back to him again. _A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. _He was about to be a Targaryen alone in the world whether he liked it or not. Suddenly feeling horribly lonesome, Jon turned to the knight. "How did it get to this?"

Mormont glanced his way but didn't speak. Trouble settled in his features and Jon understood. He imagined Mormont felt as guilty as he did. Of everyone in the world, they were perhaps the two men who could have, _should have _known what was coming. They were both fools, blinded by Daenerys' charisma and unwavering faith in herself. Blinded by love.

Suddenly Drogon swerved hard to the right. Jon slipped and felt his heart leap into his mouth. This was it, Jon thought. Someone was prepared for the dragon and had a scorpion hidden away. He looked to the ground frantically but saw nothing. Still, Drogon veered hard to the left, then the right again. His hand slipped from its hold and he grappled desperately for another.

Not the dragon death he expected, but death by dragon nonetheless. The scales were too slick and his gloves slid right down them. One hand caught a horn as he slid further, but it slowly slipped out of his grasp, too. Drogon roared and tilted once again and Jon lost contact with the dragon all together. Jon cried out and time slowed as he began his free fall.

He was halfway relieved. Now Daenerys wasn't his problem. He'd go back into the darkness. Back to death. A release. He closed his eyes and waited.

His body jerked as something caught him. He looked up. Mormont held a fistful of Jon's sleeve in his grasp and held fast to him until Drogon leveled out.

"Thanks," Jon grumbled, scrambling back into a more comfortable position. Of course not. The Lord of Light brought him back from the dead to do something important, Melisandre said. Of course he wouldn't be so lucky as to fall off a dragon. He caught his breath and marveled at how easily he'd wished for death.

"Did he eat?" Jorah asked.

"What?" Jon replied.

Drogon swerved again. Jorah gave him an uneasy glance and tightened his grip. "We're going to have a bad time if he's looking for something to hunt. Did he eat since you left King's Landing?"

Bewildered, Jon shook his head. "I don't know. Doesn't he just eat? How do you keep track of that? I didn't chain him up last night. I thought he'd find something."

Drogon swooped hard to the left, his head swiveling back and forth, scanning the ground. He roared again.

"_Affa, affa!" _Jorah called to the dragon. "_Nahko!"_

Drogon cooed his understanding and leveled out.

"You can talk to him?" Jon said. For a moment he doubted his true parentage. Weren't Targaryens supposed to be able to tame dragons? Here he'd nearly fallen off because he forgot to feed the stupid animal. At least Jorah wasn't gloating.

"She taught them commands in a mix of Valyrian and Dothraki. I've never tried, myself. I'm glad to know he'll listen." Jorah let go for a moment and tucked a long silver chain back into his tunic. It must have fallen out when he lunged to save Jon.

"Is that Sansa's?" Jon asked.

Jorah smiled sheepishly. "I borrowed it this morning. I intend to return it."

Jon nodded. "Good. About Sansa, not the necklace." Another wave of heartsickness rolled through him. His life had just been one disappointment after the next. Ygritte. Daenerys. He _did_ love Daenerys, but not in the right way. The love she craved died the moment Bran confirmed that Daenerys's brother was his father. Still, he loved her. Or he did.

Sounds of flame bursting through stone exploded through his mind and Jon tried to ignore it. It was hard to ignore the memory of the screams.

Jorah muttered something Jon didn't understand to the dragon and it dropped back below the clouds. Judging by the towns below, they were halfway to King's Landing.

"You could have let me fall and returned to Daenerys a hero, you know," Jon said. "Told her you fought me and saved Drogon and brought him back. That would have erased any question about that stupid note Brienne sent."

Jorah looked at him, eyebrow raised. "You know Daenerys sent me away from her service more than once? I'm not sure she ever trusted me." He looked down at the dragon, then nodded. "I always knew she wouldn't stop until she sat on the throne. I didn't think this is how she'd do it." He sighed. "Sansa said Daenerys didn't deserve me. Maybe she was right. She'd have been dead long ago. Poison, a spear, sword, at least a dozen other assassination attempts. I didn't take King's Landing, but I may as well have."

"I know the feeling. I gave her an army." Jon waited until Jorah was looking his way. His voice was stern and there was no mistaking the seriousness in his words. "If I don't stop her, I need you to take Longclaw and put it to my neck."

* * *

Tyrion was pleased to see daylight again. While his cell was really just a room, it was dark and dusty and isolated. He did better when he was in the know, even if the know kept him awake at night and made him sick.

This wasn't how he thought his queen would break the wheel. She was supposed to be different, not worse. Cersei was terrible, but she never slaughtered a million people in one fell swoop.

The door swung open. Tyrion squinted into the light. Dust swirled around the silhouette looming in the doorway.

"I'd ask you in for a drink but I have nothing to offer you," Tyrion joked dryly.

"Come."

Ah, Tyrion thought. That voice belonged to Grey Worm. If the Master of War was there to fetch him, he wasn't in for a good day.

Tyrion's mind raced as he walked amid a gaggle of guards. The Unsullied, usually so stoic, regarded him with hatred. Only their eyes were visible peering out from the slits in their helmets. Tyrion didn't like that they were still wearing armor, and he _really _didn't like that they watched him. Hadn't they always stared straight ahead? Regardless, there was something in their eyes he didn't like. Whatever he was heading to wasn't a picnic in the park. The parks and fountains he remembered had been destroyed in dragonfire, anyway.

They turned a corner and there she was: Queen Daenerys in all her glory, looking out over the ranks of Unsullied and Dothraki. Daenerys looked pleased with herself. Though it was nothing but a pile of ashes and crumbled stone, she was immensely proud of her new city. It was easy to see. If she could destroy one city so easily, what was the rest of the Seven Kingdoms? Nothing. Nothing at all. And she knew that.

Tyrion hadn't felt this sober for years.

She turned to face him. Her lips parted slightly, but then she thought better and pressed them shut again.

_Of course_, Tyrion thought. A queen wouldn't bother herself with a traitorous imp. He cleared his throat and bowed slightly. "So I am to die here." Each word was carefully articulated.

"No," Daenerys replied. "I needed your room." She didn't blink. "I'm a merciful ruler. You'll be executed when Drogon returns. It won't be long. He won't stay away from his mother."

"Oh. I wasn't aware he was gone." Tyrion drummed his fingers on the top of his other hand. "How merciful."

Her lip twitched in irritation before finally curling into a gruesome sneer. "Would you like the Dothraki to quarter you? The Unsullied to take your head from your shoulders? I'll arrange either, if you prefer, as a mercy."

"No, Your Grace." He stared at the ground. "Might I ask where Drogon has flown off to?"

Daenerys scoffed. "Jon Snow left for Winterfell without my leave to demand Sansa Stark bend the knee." She narrowed her eyes. "I received word she named herself Queen in the North. I'm sure you were aware of that looming deceit. I know you were close. Married at one point, I think? Oh," she added casually. "And Jorah is alive."

"That's great news," Tyrion burst. Daenerys needed a man she could trust. That was the man. Mormont was the deux ex machina to solve this whole horrible nightmare. He would give her a stern gaze and say _khaleesi _in a certain way and she'd realize the error of her ways. Tyrion could have sobbed in relief, but the look on Daenerys's face suggested there was something more.

Her voice was dangerously calm. "Jorah Mormont swore fealty to Winterfell. To Sansa Stark."

There it was. Tyrion sucked in a breath. "Oh."

It made sense. She was a kind woman. He was a kind man. Why wouldn't they end up in each other's service? Still, Mormont knew better than to switch allegiance in the middle of a war in which Daenerys was burning down cities. Something about the situation seemed fishy. Judging by the cold glare on Daenerys's face, now wasn't the time to bring it up.

Unbelievably, Tyrion felt somewhat sorry for her. The pieces fell apart so quickly. Jon with his irrefutable claim to the throne and his disinterest in incest. Mormont's supposed death. The second dragon's bloody demise. And Missandei. Sansa's supposed claim to the North and Mormont's supposed betrayal. No, there was certainly no redemption for Daenerys Targaryen after all that.

"Your Grace-"

"I'll have no more words from you," she snapped. "What did your words ever do for me? Nothing but make me vulnerable to your sister." She smirked. "But I didn't need your help to defeat her. I am a dragon, not a sheep." She gazed to the horizon. "No. Drogon won't stay away from his mother. He'll return to me. _He is loyal." _Her eyes flicked his way. She didn't need to say what happened when he returned. More death.

Tyrion bowed his head. "Of course, Your Grace."


	12. Good Men and Memory

**Author's Note: Hi, friends! Thanks for your patience. I was out in the wilderness of America and didn't have internet connection for a week there. I felt like a Hightower on Bear Island. (: **

Winterfell was dark and still as Tormund pissed over the wall. Guard duty was boring and pointless. The dead were dead and if a dragon came, they'd be dead, too. So what was he guarding against? He'd rather be drinking or sleeping or fighting or fucking or anything else.

He slumped back against the wall to nap through the rest of guard duty. Once Snow returned, they'd find out what the dragon queen wanted and most importantly, when he and the rest of the free folk could go home. Winterfell wasn't bad, but it wasn't the North.

His eyes had just fluttered shut when someone stole across the courtyard to the stables. Tormund blinked and immediately sat up straighter. It was the big woman.

She had saddled a horse by the time Tormund reached her. He cleared his throat. "Where ya goin'?"

The big woman froze, her hand hovering over the strap securing her pack. A bedroll, her sword, and other necessities were already stowed safely.

Tormund frowned at the sight. "Runnin' away?"

"No." She made no movement. Tormund watched as her eyes flitted back and forth as she thought. Finally, she sighed. "I'm not running away. I'm banishing myself for failing to serve House Stark nobly."

"So you're runnin' away." Tormund frowned. He hated the thought of being away from her, especially now that the Lannister golden boy was dead. This was his only real shot with the big woman and if she left, he didn't think he'd ever see the likes of her beauty again. "Didn't you hear? Snow went south to kill the dragon queen. Why would you go away now? The Stark woman send you away?"

"No," the big woman replied firmly. "I don't deserve to stay here. I've brought dishonor upon myself. I have no other choice." She strapped the pack on and stood with her hand on the saddle horn, ready to swing onto the horse. "I'm leaving. Please don't tell them until I'm gone." She hesitated. "I wish I never sent that stupid raven."

_Ah,_ Tormund thought. He'd nearly forgotten the drama around the meeting table. Southerners held stupid grudges. "You only did what you thought was right," he offered. "You didn't know Mormont was a good man. I didn't like Snow at first, either. He was a crow."

"I knew it was wrong," the big woman replied angrily. "I wanted him gone. I didn't care how. I wanted him to die. It would have been one less worry! Having one of Daenerys Targaryen's men in Winterfell?" She spit on the ground, narrowly missing his feet. "Lady Sansa never trusted Daenerys. I don't understand why she would trust on of her men!" Brienne huffed and rubbed her face. Her usual stoicism returned when her hand came away. "Forgive me. It's late. I need to leave if I'm going to be away by morning."

Tormund snatched the reins and held fast to them. He stared her down, daring her to take them back from him. "You're just protecting people."

Brienne eyed the reins but didn't make a move for them. "How can I face Lady Sansa again when I nearly brought dragonfire down upon us all?" Her lip quivered.

Tormund moved a few tentative steps closer, testing the water. She didn't move. That was good. "But you didn't."

The big woman sniffled and wiped her nose on the back of her bracer. "We're nothing alike, you and I. You could never understand! I have a sense of honor. I couldn't stay here."

Tormund took the remaining steps to her and lingered there, waiting to see if she'd run or if she'd cut him down. When she didn't do either, he gingerly patted her shoulder, making sure to keep the reins tight in the other hand. If she was going to make a break for it, she'd have to go through him. To be honest, he hoped she would try.

She sucked in a breath that sounded like she was about cry.

Tormund drew his own slow breath. She was so beautiful, even when she was sad.

"Maybe you could stay." Tormund's heart was hammering as if he were fighting a mammoth. Sweat dripped down his back. "You've never told me stories about being a knight down south." He stared at her hopefully. "Free folk like stories. I always see you so fancy, like a knight from your southern songs. You must have stories. Killed dead ones, bad ones. I'll just listen. Promise. Just don't leave."

She glared at him for a moment and Tormund prepared to be hit. You couldn't do much if someone swung at your face, but at least you could prepare the body somewhat. He did so.

Instead, the big woman gave another mighty sniff and threw her arms around him in a bear hug.

Now it was Tormund who wanted to cry, but it would have been tears of joy.

* * *

Each step was worse than the last.

A charred head rolled loose under Jon's boot and came to rest before Jorah, its empty sockets staring up at the sky.

It was worse than any nightmare. Jorah touched his whiskers. Was her truly awake? The tingle on his fingers was a real as the smell of the smoke hanging in the air. King's Landing was worse than he could have ever imagined. Death. Death was everywhere. It was so abhorrent Jorah wondered if _he_ was dead. Maybe this was his own personal hell. He put Daenerys in power. Hell could be the only explanation for the bone under his boot, the smell of charred human, the sight of the blood spray on almost every wall.

"I know you're thinking it," Jon muttered. "You don't believe it. It couldn't be her." He sighed and stepped over what may have been a half charred foot. "I saw it with my own eyes and I still don't believe it."

Drogon was soaring over the city, happily calling out and announcing his return. Daenerys's armies would be on them shortly. Until then, the men slowly made their way through the wreckage.

A small child peered out from a doorway. Her cheeks were black with smoke and eyes wide with fear. Jorah paused. "Jon," he said softly. "Wait."

Jon sighed as Jorah crouched and reached out to her. "Survivors are being killed in the street," he said gruffly. "At this point it's better they die under the rubble or escape. We're far enough from the worst of it. She'll be able to get out all right."

_Far from the worst of it,_ Jorah thought, his mind suddenly numb and dumb. The child whimpered and disappeared beneath a pile of bricks once again.

Jon kicked a cracked helm out of their way. "The Unsullied and the Dothraki hold the city. Tyrion is her prisoner. Grey Worm is her master of war." He ran down the checklist of what Jorah missed. "I don't know what I am. Probably her prisoner now."

* * *

Daenerys nearly burst into tears when she first heard her child's cry. Finally something was going right.

Drogon soared overhead in graceful loops, finally reaching the balcony of what she claimed as her suite. His claws scratched on stone and the structure trembled as his massive weight settled. Her bloodriders posted outside her door cheered the dragon's return and Daenerys felt the same elation in her heart. As the dragon purred and blinked at her, Daenerys gave him a wide, warm smile. He looked happy and healthy, not a scale out of place. Her eyes tracked up his neck and stopped.

He was alone.

Her joy fell away like a rockslide. "What is he?" she asked the dragon. "Did you leave him? Did he send you back?" A flush rushed over her skin and Daenerys gritted her teeth. She didn't have to ask. She knew exactly what happened. Jon Snow left her and wasn't coming back, just like everyone else she loved.

_No. No! _ She won the Seven Kingdoms. What more could she possibly do to earn love and respect?

_The Queen in the North._ _She _had their love. Jon always favored Sansa Stark, didn't he? He would never put her in her place. Even when Daenerys sat across from her, that horrible woman was cold and refused to bend the knee. Now Jon Snow was with her, conspiring against his _true _queen. Her lip curled at the thought.

And Jorah. She left him there to be healed, not for Sansa to seduce. Daenerys left Winterfell for one moment and now all of the men who used to love her, _serve_ her, served another _queen._ Jorah's betrayal felt like a slap in the face. All those years together! She allowed back into her service after his first betrayal. She _forgave _him. Did he repay her with his life, like he promised? No. He betrayed her again with the northern slut.

It wasn't until Drogon snuffled at her that Daenerys realized her breath was hissing in and out through her teeth.

Her braids spun out around her as she whipped to the door. The bloodriders stared at her, always ready to serve. _These _were loyal men. The men of Westeros were vermin. She would clean the continent of them and start over. Her men were good men. Kind men. Most importantly, they were loyal men. She would repopulate the Seven Kingdoms with their likes.

"Khaleesi?"

The Dothraki language was harsh, and she liked how it perfectly reflected her anger. "Bring me Jon Snow and Jorah the Andal. I don't care how far you have to look. Find them. Bring them to me."

* * *

The dust and smoke was beginning to irritate Jorah's eyes. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, knowing it wouldn't help. How the armies were staying here, he had no idea. He didn't want to think about what they were breathing in.

"She's been different," Jon blurted. "This isn't the woman I met on Dragonstone. She was a queen. Something happened and now it's different. Something cracked and let out this side of her that I couldn't believe." He laughed humorlessly. "Targaryens. King Aerys burned my grandfather alive, and my uncle." He hesitated and Jorah swore he could see realization hit Jon. "I guess Aerys was my grandfather, too. The Mad King." Jon blushed and shook his head. "Nevermind."

Jorah shook his head. He was pleased for the conversation. Any distraction from the graveyard around them was welcome. "You know what they say about Targaryens?" he asked.

Jon nodded. "A Targaryen alone in the world-"

"No," Jorah cut him off. "When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin. One side is greatness, the other madness. Rhaegar was a good man. I wonder what things would look like if he was king."

"You knew Rhaegar Targaryen?" Surprise lit up Jon's face, which had been taut.

"Not well." Jorah could still hear the prince's harp and sweet singing voice. He often forgot he was Daenerys's brother. Time did strange things and severed what should have been obvious connections. "There wasn't a man who wished him harm but Robert Baratheon," Jorah continued. "Lyanna Stark was a real northerner. She'd have killed any man who tried to kidnap her. And Rhaegar? He wasn't his father. He'd rather read and play his music than fight."

They walked in silence for a few more moments.

"The war was all because Robert wouldn't accept that she didn't love him. My mother," Jon added.

"We should have realized it," Jorah agreed. "We were all too drunk on battle."

Hooves on the pavement announced the presence of the Dothraki. Guards spilled around a corner and were on them immediately, shouting and gesturing. Their mounts thrived on the excitement, rearing and whinnying. They were war horses, after all.

Jon touched his sword, but Jorah gently pushed his hand down. "If they meant to kill us, we'd have been dead by now," he warned the younger man. He jutted out his chin and watched the riders approach. At this point in his life, Jorah was perhaps more comfortable with the Dothraki than Westerosi lords. Their ways were simple. Their intentions were clear.

A bloodrider jumped down from his horse and stared into Jorah's face for a long while. Jorah held his gaze. The rider's dark eyes narrowed suspiciously as he scanned the knight. Finally the rider embraced Jorah in the Dothraki way. "Jorah the Andal," he announced. "Khaleesi see you."

Jorah nodded. "Khaleesi. Yes."

Someone brought horses for them. Jon looked weary, but Jorah was thankful. At least he wouldn't have to feel the crunch of a child's skull or a man's hand beneath his own feet as they rode into the heart of the city.


	13. An End

Something had awaken in Jorah Mormont's blood. Nothing mattered in his life until this moment. Whatever was about to happen would rewrite history. The weight was monumental and Jorah wondered if that was how queens and kings felt every day.

No one spoke as the Dothraki guards marched Jon and Jorah up the stairs to the queen. Her entire host awaited in the courtyard below, the Unsullied in rank and the Dothraki milling around behind on their mounts. The northmen were stationed outside the city at Jon's order.

Grey Worm met them halfway. At first he looked past Jorah and scowled openly at Jon. After a moment he realized it was Jorah and nodded curtly.

Jorah bowed his head in return. "I was grieved to hear about Missandei's death. I'm sorry." Whatever sorrow Jorah felt, he knew it was miniscule compared to Grey Worm.

Grey Worm's usually expressionless face burned with rage. "They kill her. I see her die. I see her being scared."

Jorah nodded. "She deserved better."

"I kill every Lannister. For Missandei." Grey Worm clenched a fist and crossed it over his chest. "Until every Lannister is dead."

Jorah looked out over the city behind them. "Aye. Soldiers are one thing. But the people? There were good people like Missandei out in the city. The people don't care about who sits on the throne. The people didn't hurt her."

"Jorah," Jon warned him.

Grey Worm held his spear tightly and took a step so that he and Jorah were nose to nose. "The people here kill Missandei of Naath. The Lannister woman is dead. Her men? Dead. They get what they deserve."

Jorah nodded. "They've paid ten times over and ten times again," he agreed. "It's time to rebuild something new. This is enough death. I need to talk to Daenerys."

Grey Worm didn't seem especially moved by his words. If anything, he looked annoyed. "The queen will see you," he said, ushering Jorah further up the stairs, his spear pointing the way. "She has words."

Jorah and Jon had only taken a few steps when Grey Worm announced them. "Jon Snow the Bastard and Jorah the Andal. Bow before Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Protector of Seven Realms."

Jon's dark eyes flickered to Jorah for a brief moment. They were two northerners in King's Landing. Sansa was right. Northern men never did well in King's Landing no matter who was on the throne. They climbed a few more stairs and there she was.

Daenerys strode forward from between a pair of pillars which were miraculously still standing. Her voice was low and shook with fury. "How _dare _you take one of my children from me!" Her eyes burned with hatred and her hands curled into trembling fists.

Beside her, Tyrion was staring at the ground. His presence unsettled Jorah the most. Jon's last intel indicated Tyrion was a prisoner. Perhaps this was to be a mass execution.

Jon immediately took knee before her. "I had to deal with Winterfell, Your Grace."

Daenerys allowed herself a cruel bark of laughter. "Am I supposed to believe the _Queen in the North _gave her title so easily, so quickly? You're fairly persuasive, but I doubt you could make Sansa Stark bend the knee. Tell me. Is the Traitor Queen in the North truly prepared to die for her vanity? I have a large dragon. She has an empty castle. Perhaps I'll have a word with her like I originally intended." She turned and calledthe dragon's name.

A rush of wings stirred more ash into the air as Drogon responded to her call. He regarded Jon and Jorah, then called out and perched on a broken stone archway.

Daenerys was halfway to him when Jon called out. "Dany, no. It was a misunderstanding. I know you're not stupid enough to believe it. Don't use this as an excuse to burn down another city full of innocent people!"

Jorah sucked in a breath. Tyrion's face was drawn and pained.

The queen regarded Jon as if he'd just slapped her. She stood stunned for a moment, her icy violet eyes boring a hole through Jon's soul.

Jorah finally found words. He looked up to Daenerys, but remained on a knee. "Your Grace. I was there. None of this was Sansa's idea. One of her men thought-"

"Silence." Daenerys's lip twitched and Drogon snarled, sensing his mother's ire. She scanned Jorah, her face impassive until her eyes reached his armor. Her nostrils flared in disgust. The dragon scales and tails were missing from his armor. The only sigil he wore was a bear. Daenerys turned her attention back to Jon. "I thought you went North to tell your sister to bend the knee. Instead, you turned her against me _and_ brought me a traitor. How very productive of you."

Jorah's mouth went dry. "Khaleesi, I can explain-"

"No! How many times have you needed to explain yourself to me? That's enough, Ser Jorah." Daenerys turned away from him and took a few paces, then turned back. Her face had changed. It was unnaturally serene. "And I'm not a khaleesi. Not anymore. I am the queen of the seven kingdoms." She hesitated. "Almost. This is just the start. I am the breaker of chains. I'm breaking the wheel. I swore to you so many years ago that I would, and I did." She marched forward and loomed before him. "I kept my word. But here on the steps of the Iron Throne, you betrayed me. Again."

Jorah felt Tyrion's frightened gaze on him. He bowed his head. There was nothing to say to her. Not anymore.

She clicked her tongue in mock disappointment. "It seems all of my advisers are out of words. Tyrion has been uncharacteristically quiet as well."

Behind her, Tyrion looked up. Misery had never been personified so perfectly. Dark bags hung under his eyes, just under his long hair. His hands were bound before him and his clothes were filthy. It was hard to tell whether he was unwashed from the cells or just covered in ash that didn't seem to ever stop falling.

Jorah finally stared into Daenerys's face. She looked the same as she always had, beautiful, too beautiful to be real, but something else had changed. Something in her eyes didn't look right. "Khaleesi," Jorah whispered. "Please. Let me help you."

Daenerys's eyebrows curved sympathetically. "My old bear. You were a guest of Lady Sansa for a long time. You _could have _helped me. You could have spoken with my voice and won her loyalty." She turned her hands upward and shrugged. The mock indifference was a new tune; a frightening one. "Instead, you swore fealty to Sansa Stark."

"It's my fault," Jon interrupted.

The Unsullied shifted uncomfortably. Jorah caught Tyrion's gaze. He shook his head slightly. _Things are about to get bad, _the gaze said.

Jon stood at his full height. His tone changed dramatically. He sounded as if he were scolding a child. "I sent word of what happened here to Winterfell. The north has turned against you. My men are outside the city and they won't answer to you. You'll lose the Seven Kingdoms as quickly as you win them if you slaughter people. Innocent people." Jon shook his head. "Not like this, Dany. Please."

Daenerys's calm, superior facade broke. Outrage poured from her. "_Our_ people? I thought _I_ was your queen?" The feelings she had for him were utterly gone and replaced with pure hatred. "Jon Snow, I sentence you to die for treason and conspiring against the crown."

A dozen small points of chaos broke out. Jorah jumped to his feet and called out. Tyrion rushed forward and was dragged backward by Grey Worm. Jon stood stoically, accepting his fate.

"Khaleesi!" Jorah called again.

But he was too late. Daenerys spun to Drogon and called out, "Dracarys!"

Jon squeezed his eyes shut as Drogon turned his large head his way. Jorah held his breath. A hungry madness burned in Daenerys's eyes. Drogon sniffed Jon, whined, then turned to Daenerys.

"Thank the gods," Tyrion moaned in a low voice.

"What's wrong with you?" Daenerys hissed at the beast. "_Dracarys!"_

A low mournful groan filled the air as Drogon reluctantly coiled back. His throat glowed red and he opened his mouth. For a moment it looked as if he might eat Jon instead of burn him, but steam preceded the flames and there was no turning back.

_A_s if destined to move at that exact moment, Jorah launched forward with speed he never knew he possessed. There was no time to think. He was acting on instinct. He couldn't have stopped if he wanted. Dragonfire filled the air just as Jorah drew his sword.

Shielding her eyes from the sight of the flames consuming Jon, Daenerys spun away from the fire and directly onto Heartsbane. Her lips parted in surprise and confusion. Her violet eyes locked on Jorah's, searching.

"Forgive me, Khaleesi." With one thrust, Jorah ran the sword through her completely, piercing her heart.

Silence fell over the city. Whether it was real or just in his own mind, Jorah didn't know. His senses fell away. He could no longer see the stream of dragonfire roasting Jon Snow alive. He didn't feel the heat or hear Tyrion's agonized cry.

Daenerys's weight went slack on the sword and it grew heavy in his hand. Heartsbane glimmered red as he smoothly drew it back. Jorah dropped the sword. Its clang against the stone was deafening.

Already limp in his embrace, Daenerys seemed so small, so fragile. _Had she always been this delicate?_ Jorah eased her onto the ground. Her white fur had turned a deep crimson. The same color was painting his hands and sleeves.

Jorah stroked her cheek, brushed a stray strand of hair back from her forehead. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. He gently closed her eyes. Those eyes going vacant would haunt him for the rest of his life. He was the last thing she saw; her devoted knight betraying her one final time.

Suddenly Drogon's breath was hot on his back. So this was it. In an instant Jorah would be dead, too, but at least he could die with a clear conscience. He'd do it again. In his heart, Jorah knew it was the only way to end the slaughter.

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons, was dead.

* * *

Tyrion stared from scene to scene. It all happened so quickly. He still couldn't quite understand how they escalated to this insane moment so rapidly.

Grey Worm held the armies at bay. He seemed just as shocked as Tyrion felt.

The last Targaryens were gone, killed in a stupid war started by a stupid man. What a life they all would have led if Robert Baratheon had just accepted that Lyanna Stark didn't love him. Tyrion wondered who Jon and Daenerys would have been in peace had Rhaegar lived. A royal family. Jon a prince, the first dark haired Targaryen. Daenerys a princess, a comfortable life married to some lord. Maybe she'd have wed Robb Stark to further cement the north to the Targaryen line. Or maybe to some Dornish prince. Truly, Tyrion realized, Rhaegar would have never forced her to marry anyone. Life would have been different. Better.

So many if's.

Instead, Mormont was holding Daenerys's limp body in a stupor, her blood soaked through his surcoat. He cradled her as if she were a broken vase and he was uncertain what to do with the pieces. She was too precious to throw away, but too jagged to keep.

Drogon stood quietly, snuffling the air and shuddering. At one point Jorah idly patted him on the snout. The dragon didn't so much as snap at him.

Tyrion sighed. Behind them the smoke was clearing. There in the middle of the soot was what was left of Jon Snow. The final casualty of Daenerys's descent into madness. Tyrion looked glumly at the remains. Jon's clothes were burned away and his skin darkened with smoke. His arms pointlessly guarded his face. His hair had mostly burned away, too. A piss poor end for a genuinely good, noble man.

The last Targaryens.

He looked to Grey Worm, expecting the beheading to begin any moment. Yet the master of war was still staring at Jon's body, his hand frozen in a strong _halt _command for all his men to see.

Tyrion looked back to Jon's body. Then it hit him. Body? There shouldn't be a body left. When poor Varys was burned, there were hardly bones left. The same for the Tarlys. Tyrion's heart rate picked up, skipping and thudding.

Jon Snow's body was very much in tact. So much in tact it looked like he was still breathing. Tyrion held his own breath. It couldn't be.

Tyrion looked to Mormont, but he was still too shocked at what he'd done to register anything else that was happening. Tyrion looked back to Jon. Yes, he was actually moving. Jon Snow wasn't dead.

Naked and filthy but very much alive, the last Targaryen slowly stood and took stock of his body. Then he looked to where Jorah cradled Daenerys, to Tyrion, and finally, the armies waiting at the base of the stairs.

One by one the Unsullied threw down their weapons and took a knee. The Dothraki fell deathly silent. There were very few left from Khal Drogo's original khalesaar left alive. None had seen Daenerys step out of the fire. They were seeing the miracle for the first time.

"Mormont," Tyrion said again, more urgently.

The knight finally looked up, first to Tyrion, then to Jon. There was no awe on his face, only understanding. "Fire cannot kill a dragon," he said plainly.

Grey Worm still hadn't moved. He let his hand drop. None of the soldiers were waiting for a command any longer. They were staring at Jon Snow.

Tyrion called out in a loud voice for all to hear. "All hail King Jon, of houses Stark and Targaryen, First of His Name, Protector of the Realm, the Unburnt, the Undead."

* * *

Bran's eyes blinked back to normal. He sat for a moment, digesting the information. So it was true. He had his suspicions, but the events of King's Landing confirmed everything.

He turned to the guard at the edge of the weirwood. "I need my sisters. I must see Sansa and Arya," he called. "Hurry."


	14. Disbelief

"Ser Jorah Mormont _is _Azor Ahai reborn."

Arya blinked stupidly at Bran, then looked to Sansa. This was the third, perhaps the fourth time Bran said the words. There was no mincing his statement, but Arya had a hard time believing it. Dead people, dragons, faceless men. There wasn't much that she didn't believe these days, but _this_ felt like a stretch, possibly because she so desperately believed _she _was Azor Ahai.

Sansa was staring at Bran, her face pale and his utterly neutral. When Bran summoned them to the weirdwood with the promise of urgent news, the sisters ran, fear and excitement hanging in the air around them. News. News. The war was either over or about to begin. This was something else entirely.

"No," Sansa mumbled breathlessly, speaking for the first time. "That – that can't be. He didn't love her anymore." She found her fierceness again. "He didn't. And Azor Ahai is supposed to have a flaming sword. Beric Dondarrion died with his flaming sword." She jutted her chin out and crossed her arms. "He can't be Azor Ahai. Jorah's going to return to Winterfell and be my lord. He promised."

Bran regarded her for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. "There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world." He spoke with a calm knowing that chilled Arya further. "In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him."

"We know the story," Arya clucked. "But it was me. I killed the Night King. Even the Red Woman knew. I shut the blue eyes forever."

Bran's patience was bountiful. "The Three Eyed Raven has no reason to lie." His voice was kind. He waited for another rebuttal.

Arya pursed her lips. House Stark was supposed to be who took back the north, who defeated the evil and saved Westeros. Still, nothing could take her victory away. Arya Stark would always be the one who defeated the Night King. Father would have been so proud.

"It is what it is, whether we accept it or not," Bran offered as a say all end all.

"Then it must be true," Sansa muttered. She looked to Bran, her voice pleading and eyes full of loss and sorrow she knew so well. "Now what must he do?"

Bran allowed her a moment, then spoke kindly. "Ser Jorah plunged a Valyrian steel sword through Daenerys's heart. His love for her was pure and true like Azor Ahai's love for Nissa Nissa, but his love for humanity was greater. That was his destiny. It is fulfilled."

Sansa nodded numbly.

"And what about Jon?" Arya asked defensively. "He loved her too, the big stupid. He could have killed her, too. Would that have made him Azor Ahai? A bunch of different people can't be the same hero reborn. Jon is the prince who was promised. If it's not me, it has to be him."

As if it were the most obvious thing on the planet, Bran stared at her and explained slowly: "Jorah Mormont is Azor Ahai. The man you know as Jon Snow still has important work ahead of him. Aegon Targaryen is the Last Dragon."


	15. A Feast For Queens

_Two Months Later_

Jon just wanted to go home.

True, the northern army and his party was traveling back to Winterfell, but he wasn't going home. Not really. He watched the green, lush plants on the kingsroad grow sparse. The ground turned cold and frosty before they finally crunched over fresh fallen snow.

The party rode silently for the most part. No one felt chatty after what they'd endured, not even Tyrion Lannister. That was fine by Jon. He rode alongside Davos and Jorah and was at least pleased to have the wise silence. It gave him time to think. Unfortunately, all the thinking in the world wasn't helping him.

The familiar sight of direwolf tracks in the snow should have thrilled him, but they left a sick ache in Jon's heart. He'd see Ghost soon, and Sansa and Bran and Arya, Tormund and Brienne and all the northerners left behind, but the thought brought him little joy. He could never stay in the north, never go back to any of the lives he'd lived. Not as a northerner or a wildling or a crow or anything. He sighed.

"Men ahead," a Dothraki guard called out, his accent thick. "Villagers."

Jorah, riding next to Jon, said something to the guard in Dothraki. The rider nodded and fell back into line.

Another thing Jon needed to do. Learn Dothraki. He drew a deep breath and held it, hoping to calm his rage. When he withstood Drogon's fiery blast, the khalesaar fell to their knees and worshiped him. The Unsullied, however, rebelled. Jon didn't blame them. Grey Worm has his freedom thanks to Daenerys.

But now she was dead.

Jon glanced guiltily at Mormont. Of the two of them, it should have been Jon. Jorah love Daenerys far longer. The task would haunt Jon until his dying day. He couldn't imagine how Mormont felt.

As quickly as Grey Worm had called his men to fight that day, he called them off. When Grey Worm realized Drogon obeyed Jon's command even as Daenerys's body cooled there on the stone, it was lost. Even the Unsullied couldn't defeat a dragon and Grey Worm knew it. The Unsullied sailed for Naath, where he would serve Missandei's people and protect them. For her.

That left Jon with a khalesaar he didn't want, an Iron Throne he didn't want, and seven kingdoms he didn't want. Well, six, hopefully. He was riding north to deliver the northman home and to propose rule of the north to the Lady of Winterfell. Sansa was born a queen.

"Your Grace," Ser Davos said. "Looks like we've got a roadblock."

A crowd of villagers were gathered on the road, gawking and craning their necks to see the army coming up the road. Hunger stretched their skin over their cheekbones and forced their eyes deeped into their sockets.

"I see 'em." Jon sighed. "And it's just Jon."

"That won't do," Jorah replied gruffly. "A king needs a title whether he wants it or not." He gave Jon a look that assured he knew best, and Jon didn't dare argue.

"We heard there was a dragon!" a woman in the crowd called. "What happened? Riders fleeing King's Landing have said terrible stories. They can't be true."

Ser Davos cleared his throat. "This is the king." He raised an eyebrow. They'd never discussed what his official name would be. Snow didn't sound very kingly. "King Jon."

The people stared up at the Stark armor, then at each other.

"That's no king," a farmer boy argued. "That's a Stark. Starks ain't the kings. It's the Lannisters."

"This is King Jon, First of His Name, of Houses Stark and Targaryen. Rightful heir to the Iron Throne." Davos cleared his throat. "Now's a good time to bow, lads."

Another woman gasped and fell on her knees. "The Lannisters are gone?" She began to weep. "They killed my son. He wasn't even a soldier. He was just a boy. Thank you, King Jon!"

Davos glanced around, hoping someone else would take over. When Jon and Jorah kept their eyes down, he cleared his throat and continued. "The lion no longer rules Westeros. The tyranny with the dragon is over."

The crowd began to murmur and buzz about excitedly.

"Will there be more food?"

"Can you take a man for work? I can ride!"

Jon grimaced and looked from face to face in the crowd. They were all shouting. They all wanted something from them. As king, he was responsible for them. Each and every one of them, all clamoring and shouting, their hands reaching for him as the air got heavier and Jon felt the crushing pressure of the crown pressing down on him harder and harder until his head begin to spin and ears began to ring.

"Move," a Dothraki rider urged the the crowd. "King Jon wait for no peasant."

The crowd dispersed to either side of the road, their eyes even wider as the Dothrakis rode past. The riders whooped as their mounts thundered through the crowd. Villagers cried out and stumbled out of the way quicker.

It was too much. The crowd, the northmen behind him, the ragtag group of knights and advisors from every house and kingdom, and now a horde of Dothraki.

"The Dothraki aren't godless savages like the men here think," Jorah said before Jon could voice his concern. "They're from a harsh land where only the strong could survive. They have no time for villagers hoping for news or a look at the new king, but they won't cut anyone down without your command." He straightened in the saddle. "After seeing Daenerys come out of the fire, they swore to obey her. Now they've sworn to obey you."

Jon fought back his shame for mistrusting the riders. He glanced at a few Dothraki, joking and calling to each other. It was one bridge too far, one responsibility too many. Learning how to rule was one thing, but learning another culture and language? "If I name you lord of the Dothraki, will you accept it?" he blurted.

Jorah frowned. "I made a promise to your sister." He caught himself, then tilted his head sheepishly. "Cousin?"

"She's my sister," Jon replied. "Maybe she didn't always like it, but that's what she is to me." He cleared his throat. "Please. I don't know them. I don't know anything about them. I can't speak their language. You rode with them for years. They respect you. They'll follow you."

"Aye." Jorah glanced at the riders, deep in thought.

"Azor Ahai, bringer of light and rider with the Dothraki," Davos added from the other side of Jon. "Has a nice ring to it. But is it better than a warm bed every night?" Davos sighed. "When things settle down I'm looking forward to going home, if my wife will still have me! A warm bed and a warm meal every night is just what this old man needs." He chuckled. "I'm sure Ser Jorah agrees."

"Azor Ahai," Jorah scoffed, casting a stern look Davos's way.

Jon didn't mention he was pleased to not be Azor Ahai on top of everything else.

Jorah stared ahead at the horizon. They were in the north now. "My fighting days are over, Your Grace. The riders have learned enough of the common tongue. You'll be able to lead them. I'm needed elsewhere." A wry smile cracked across his face. "Part of me hopes she's thought better. That is, if you'll allow it."

Jon knew he couldn't deny the plea. Twice he'd had love and twice it had been on the wrong side of the war. Jon didn't dare think of Sansa's journey, or even Jorah's. Besides, Jon knew she'd marry the knight if she wanted, king's blessing or no. "You'll be a fine husband."

Visibly relieved, Jorah exhaled. "Thank you."

Jon watched a pair of Dothraki riders reach up and knock snow from trees onto the northerners. The powder fell in clumps, breaking on the northerners' heads. The soldiers grumbled and cursed but the riders hooted in delight and rode to the front of the column, pleased with their mischief.

"That doesn't explain what I do with an army full of riders I can't communicate with," Jon muttered. "Can I leave them here with you?"

"The Dothraki?" Jorah asked. "Leave them to hunt and build their cities where they will. They'll adapt. Perhaps they'll ride to Dorne. You're their khal. If you order them to make new lives here, they will."

Jon rubbed his face. Khal. King. His Grace. Life would be so much simpler back at the wall, or if Ned Stark never rode south to avenge Jon Arryn.

* * *

Tyrion never thought he'd spend so much time in Winterfell. Yet here he was, rolling up yet again. He threw back the curtain in his litter and looked out at the cold, harsh landscape. It was snowing, of course. Maybe Eternal Winter wasn't a threat anymore, but it was still the north. The litter rolled to a stop and Tyrion threw his arms over his head to stretch. His back popped. It had been a long, boring ride. Excited to stretch his cramped legs, Tyrion stepped down onto the frosty ground.

A flash of grey flew past and knocked him backward. Swearing, Tyrion climbed back to his feet and glared.

It was Mormont's horse. It didn't stop at the gate with the others. It thundered past, carrying Jorah straight into the courtyard. Tyrion's stomach dropped. Had Mormont seen something unsavory within the walls? Had Daenerys somehow snuck past them and burned everyone alive while they rode south to meet her? He sniffed the air. It seemed relatively fresh, but the smell of charred bodies tended to stick in one's nose and memory.

"Mormont!" Tyrion called. His affinity for the northerner had only grown after the messy ordeal at King's Landing. Misery loved company and boy, did they both feel miserable as they watched Drogon fly into the horizon with Daenerys's body in his grasp.

Besides their recent shared trauma, Mormont was practically dead when Tyrion last left him in Winterfell. He didn't particularly want to see him in the same way again. "Mormont!"

Tyrion reached the courtyard, his head swiveling back and forth so violently he saw stars. Everything seemed to be in order. The commoners were moving about their day, looking up at interest in the returning army and then going back to their work. A few women cheered and ran to greet their men. Nothing was wrong.

So why was Mormont in such a rush?

Tyrion finally spotted the knight and meant to have words with him for nearly running him down. Instead, Tyrion leaned against the litter and smiled. _All's well that ends well,_ he thought wistfully.

Mormont was in the arms of Sansa Stark.

* * *

_Two Months Later_

The Prince of Dorne was a handsome man. There was no denying it. His long thick black hair and perfectly tanned skin would be appealing to anyone. Even Jorah was impressed, as much as he was set to loathe the man.

Sansa was sitting in her throne, a bemused smile on her face and a silver crown in her hair. Seeing her in her queenly garb was as breathtaking as it was on her coronation day. Jorah's chest warmed. Anyone could see the woman was a natural ruler.

Prince Quentyn knelt at Sansa's feet and gracefully took her hand. "My Queen," he said suavely as he pressed his lips to her hand.

"I'm not your queen," Sansa replied dryly, drawing her hand back into her lap. "Jon is your king. The last I heard, he had no wife."

"Of course, Your Grace," Prince Quentyn agreed as he stood at his full height. "But you_ could be _my queen. I've come such a long way with the hope in my heart. I saw you in King's Landing and have never been able to forget you. I should have asked you to be my wife then and there as we laid the foundation of Westeros."

The Dornishmen with him exchanged glances and smirks. They'd clearly seen this song and dance before. On each side of Sansa, Jorah and Bran merely watched, stone faced. Arya was somewhere, likely gathering information. She was never far from the family, but didn't like to partake in the ceremony.

Sansa leaned forward. "Prince Quentyn, I was under the impression you wished to establish a regular trade with the North. Was that not your intention for this trip?"

"Yes," Prince Quentyn agreed eagerly. "Yes, Your Grace. I wish to trade my heart for your love."

Jorah cleared his throat but held his tongue. Sansa turned to him and smiled. The look said everything. As much as it may have been a smart match to unite the North and Dorne, Sansa would never do anything to compromise herself again. Jorah held her gaze for a moment before bowing his head slightly.

"What's this? The old man thinks he knows a better suitor?" Prince Quentyn exclaimed. Beaming, he turned to his guard. "Perhaps he thinks he would be better?" Laughter rose to the rafters. One of the Dornishmen doubled over in laughter.

Jorah gritted his teeth. The insult stung. Not because it was original, but because Jorah agreed. He _was_ too old. He was worn out and shamed, redeemed, famous for slaying the woman he swore to serve. What business did he have with Sansa Stark, Queen of the North? He suddenly wished Jaime Lannister was alive. How could anyone understand the weight of killing the monarch you swore to serve? How did a man live with the reputation, let alone the guilt? Azor Ahai or not, Jorah Mormont was but a knight in love with a queen.

Sansa waited for the laughter to die down before she offered her own smile. "From what I know of Dorne; you're a fairly liberal kingdom, are you not?"

Still chuckling, the prince nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. There are no prudes, no shame. We make love under the sun and stars and no one looks down on a bastard. Sand is a name to be proud of. Being born of passion! What an honor." The charm and bright smile were aimed right at her. "I could show you many exotic things from my liberal kingdom, Your Grace."

Sansa nodded. "I'm glad to hear you're open minded. You'll be familiar, then, that sometimes queens take lovers."

The prince's smile widened. "Certainly."

"Good." Sansa sat back and clasped her hands in her lap. "Ser Jorah is mine. I advise you to watch your tongue concerning him."

The grin was entirely gone. "Jorah? The old man is Jorah Mormont?" Quentyn turned to Jorah, his face utterly void of joy. "Azor Ahai?" he whispered.

Jorah didn't speak.

Delighted with the turn of events, Sansa gestured between the men. "If you truly think you can contend with Azor Ahai, Prince Quentyn, I invite you to duel him for my heart."

Prince Quentyn dropped his gaze. "Of course not." He mustered a breathy laugh. "We're only talking trade, one kingdom to another. King Jon said you were very delightful. How right he is." He turned his attention from Sansa back to Jorah.

At last, Jorah smiled.

Drunk after the feast later that night, Sansa stumbled into her room. The Dornish prince found his affection suddenly coolled and instead treated her like a monarch. He only spared her a few leers, and quickly averted his gaze when she caught him staring. Pleased to have won a new trade partner and avoided another unwanted marriage, Sansa drank to every toast and laughed at every bawdy joke. Arya reappeared and spent the evening laughing and drinking by her side. So this was life during peace. Sansa scarcely remembered it, but prayed it lasted for her life and lifetimes to come.

Jorah was reading at her desk. He left the party early to study something to send to Jon – Sansa couldn't remember the details in her fuzziness – but Arya and Jorah made a big show of changing of the guard. Prince Quentyn looked even more mortified to see Arya Stark, the Kingkiller at her side. Azor Ahia, the woman who defeated the dead, the Three Eyed Raven. Sansa Stark kept a legendary entourage, indeed. She giggled at the thought.

"I could hear that sound every minute for the rest of my life and never tire of it," Jorah murmured. "I'm glad you're home."

Sansa danced across the room and perched on his lap, lifting the book from his grasp and tossing it aside. "Did you see their faces all night?" She cackled. "The prince thought I was a stupid girl. He hoped to leave here a king! But I'm marrying Lord Mormont."

"You might be a stupid girl," Jorah chuckled. "A clever, beautiful young queen has no business with an old knight. It's political suicide."

It was a conversation they had almost daily. Sansa insisted they wed. Jorah truly intended to marry her until Jon surprised everyone at Winterfell by announcing Sansa was queen in the north, ruler of her own separate kingdom. Now he couldn't in good conscience marry her and deprive her the freedom a queen needed. "There may come a time when you need to secure some lord's assets for your people," Jorah warned her repeatedly.

She never cared. Half of Winterfell was planning their wedding while the other half tried to figure out why the groom was so unwilling.

Sansa rolled her eyes and growled. "Fine! If you insist, I guess a prince is a close fit for a queen. Bring me Prince Quentyn!" She threw her hair over her shoulder scandalously. "My children will be Sands!"

"Only if you don't mind sharing," Jorah replied. "I came across the prince with Rose afterdinner."

Giggles burst from her lips again. "I saw him with Tawny _before _dinner! I guess I'll be in good company, then, bearing Sands for Winterfell because my knight won't marry me." She got to her feet and stumbled to the bed to pull off her boots. The laces outmaneuvered her fingers, which didn't seem to be working right. She closed one eye and squinted. It appeared the boots had far more laces than she remembered.

Jorah watched her struggle, knowing she'd never ask for help. He smiled fondly. Queen Sansa Stark was a fiercely stubborn woman. One of the many things he loved about her.

Frustrated, Sansa flopped back onto the bed, boots still fastened tightly. "What _exotic_ things the prince must be teaching our northern women! Isn't sex the same everywhere? I don't know how exotic it could get."

Jorah knelt and took her foot in his hands. "I can't speak for Dorne, but the Dothraki do it differently. You'd think it exotic if you ever saw it."

Sansa sat back upright. "You've seen it? Show me."

"It's not befitting a queen." Jorah pulled her boots off and tossed them aside. "Come." He pulled her to her feet and began to undo the buttons and laces at the back of her gown.

Sansa adamantly refused a handmaid as they laid out the groundwork for the North returning to its own kingdom. It didn't take long for her to realize why ladies had them. Jorah found himself not only the captain of her queensguard, but her knight in waiting as well. He drew the line at fussing with her hair.

Sansa hummed contentedly as Jorah worked at her gown. "I told an entire court of Dornishmen that you were my lover. You wouldn't make a liar of me. I thought of you after you left." She reached around and groped at him. "I won't stop asking. Do you do it in the saddle? _Show me._"

"You're drunk," Jorah said with a soft chuckle. "Perhaps another evening."

Sansa shrugged out of the gown. "When you think of exotic lovemaking I want you to think of _me_, not your Dothraki women."

"I had no Dothraki women."

Nude, Sansa turned back to him. Her eyes sparkled deviously. "Shouldn't a queen know about her subjects?" She traced her finger down his chest. It trailed down his torso, over scars, and under his waistband. "It would be neglectful of me to have this chance to learn more about the people under my protection and to not take it. I'm a _good _queen. You have to teach me."

"Nice try. The Dothraki are Jon's subjects," Jorah reminded her. He easily scooped her into his arms and deposited her into the bed. "Sleep."

"Jorah!" Sansa exclaimed, half screaming and half giggling. She was proud to be a happy drunk. "I'm not a fragile little princess. Northerners are every bit as hearty at the Dothraki. Come fuck me!"

"If you're awake in twenty minutes I will," Jorah said, sitting back at the desk. He picked up the book and searched for his spot.

Sansa fought the comfort of the furs enveloping her. They were warm and soft and lulled her to sleep. "I command you."

"You have no authority here," Jorah replied. "Azor Ahai answers to no queen."

"That's not how it works!" Sansa muttered sleepily into her arm. Her eyes closed halfway through the sentence.

"No, it's not," Jorah chuckled. "Good night, my queen."


	16. Dornish Red

_King's Landing – Two Months Post Dragon Attack_

King's Landing was nice once, even the pinnacle of civilization. Gilly squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember the huge stone towers, beautiful stained glass, fancy gold furniture, and assorted relics from other wars and reigns. She _knew _it used to be fancy. All she could see now was ruin, dusty faces, and a lot of work to be done.

Sam was always helping Jon nowadays. He was the Grand Maester, but without a city, there wasn't a lot of maestering to do. Jon – _King Jon –_ was doing a good job of making the big plan and sending the workers out. How long would it take to put the stones back up? Years and years, Gilly presumed. Back when Sam was studying here to be a maester, Gilly read to pass the time. SHe learned a lot. Sometimes she wished she hadn't. For example, now she _knew i_t took years to build cities, and that was when you had lots of men to help. All of the men here were dead. She would never see this city restored to its former glory in her lifetime.

Little Sam was on the floor of their room playing with blocks Sam carved for him. He was learning quickly. People might even think he was smart enough to be a maester like his dad. The thought made Gilly proud. She ran her hand over her stomach. The next babe would be dark haired and kind. Not that Little Sam wasn't going to grow up to be a fine man – but with this next one, Gilly would worry less about whether he had bad blood in his veins. Daenerys Targaryen had the Mad King's blood in her, and look what happened. Gilly's father had bad blood, and that means she did, too. Little Sam got a double dose. That gave Gilly enough reason to worry.

Sam returned for the day and Gilly smiled. No more worry for today. It was hard to worry with Sam being so smiley lately.

"How was your day?" Sam asked cheerily, bending down and picking up Little Sam.

"Fine," Gilly answered. "I wish I could do something useful. I could sweep. There's a lot to sweep."

"Not in your condition," Sam replied. "To be honest, I worry with you even being around all this dust. Can't be helped, I suppose." He lifted the child above his head, then swung him back and forth a few times. The boy squealed in delight. "It's coming together. We have a course of action. A plan. Men assigned to their tasks. Jon's really taking to it. I knew he would."

"Of course, if he's Aegon Targaryen," Gilly replied proudly. "Imagine if he never learned."

Sam thought a moment, then shrugged. "I don't imagine it would change much except him being king. I still think he would have done everything he did in the battle."

Gilly frowned. "But he's king now and that's important. No one can have another war about it because he's the right heir." _And because I discovered it, _she thought humbly.

"That's true," Sam nodded. "My only disappointment is Tyrion promised Ser Bronn of the Blackwater an appointment on the small council. He's master of coin. He wants to rebuild the brothels as a priority. He thinks it'll raise morale. Can you imagine?"

Gilly nodded. "He might be right."

Taken aback, Sam stared at her, trying to detect a jest. When he didn't find one on her face, her cleared his throat. "Anyway. I'd rather see the infirmaries rebuilt."

Smiling sweetly, Gilly shrugged. "You can rebuild both."

* * *

_Winterfell - Two Months into King Jon's Reign_

Tormund was exceptionally kind, if you could get past the lewdness. He was loyal and noble in his own way, you _always _knew where you stood with him, and he was exceptionally skilled in more private skills.

Now Brienne stood in the courtyard and watched him train a young boy. The boy was clumsy and tripped over his own feet before Tormund even raised his weapon. He crashed into the dirt and contemplated crying. Tormund bawked at his squire and jeered for him to get up. The boy hurried back to his feet. His helm slid down over his face and Tormund laughed a hearty roar.

Brienne smiled. She had finally allowed him to speak to her in public and to stay in her chamber for the whole night. There was nothing to be ashamed of. They'd lived through so much it was about time everyone settled down and minded their own business. (But what her father would say if he had lived to see her love a Wildling.)

Sniffling and fighting back tears, the boy lifted the helm off his head. "I'm _trying_."

"Of course you are," Tormund replied, clapping the boy on the back hard enough to make him stumble forward. "You're just little."

"I'm not little," the boy whined. "I'm not of the right age. Father said I could start training when I was seven. I'm only six."

Tormund knelt before the boy. "When I was your age I was already fighting."

"I'm not a Wildling though!"

"Not yet." Tormund wiggled his eyebrows. "Keep training with me and maybe you will be."

The boy sighed and ran off to return his blunted blade and armor before hurrying off to his lessons. Tormund watched the boy, a small smile showing through his wild whiskers.

Brienne crossed the courtyard and nudged him. "Your other squire got knocked into the dirt by mine again this morning."

Nodding, Tormund shrugged. "Can't be helped. I would be motivated to cut down a mountain if you were my teacher." He turned and grabbed her around the waist, crushing her body against his as he kissed her neck. "It would be too distracting. I could never learn anything. Just better ways to fuck."

Blast. Brienne felt her cheeks go warm. Tormund pulled back and stared at her with those starry eyes. He loved when she blushed.

"Stop that," Brienne chuckled. "I wanted to show you the belt."

"Ah," Tormund nodded. "Good! It's done already? That Gendry's a good smith. No wonder he didn't want to be some snooty lord of a godforsaken rock."

Brienne drew a package from inside her cloak. "Let me know if you think it's all right." She unwrapped the gift she hoped Jorah Mormont would appreciate. It was a leather belt decorated with silver wolf buckles. Fine enough to wear at Sansa's side, but sturdy enough to hold up during battle.

"It's nice," he said as Brienne gingerly wrapped it back up. "I don't know much about the baubles of you southern people, but I'd wear it if I was a fancy lord." He looked up and beamed. "And there he is! Mormont!" he called. "Come here!"

Her knees went weak. Brienne whipped her head around. Sure enough, Jorah was striding easily across the courtyard. Her stomach twisted. It had been nearly impossible, but she'd done her best to avoid him for the past few weeks. Guilt was burning a hole in her stomach over the memory of selling him out to Daenerys and risking all out war between Winterfell and King's Landing. All Jorah did was wake up after battle. That was enough to earn her ire. Now she understood why she acted so harshly. Jaime rode south, breaking her heart on the way to save Cersei. And here Jorah Mormont woke up and Sansa Stark fell in love with him. _It wasn't fair!_ Brienne thought so fiercely. When she penned the letter to Daenerys, she really only wanted Jorah gone. She had no right. But she sent it anyway.

Brienne wasn't sure she'd ever felt such shame. Lady Stark forgave her. Arya forgave her. Even Ser Jorah forgave her, but she couldn't forgive herself until Tormund begged her to stay. It wasn't so long ago when she begged someone to stay.

Tormund greeted Jorah warmly, pulling him into an embrace as if they hadn't just dined together at breakfast.

"You handsome bastard," Tormund said. "I never thought in my life I'd be crossing paths with a Mormont and not trying to kill him. Did you think your best friend would be one of the Free Folk?"

Jorah grinned. "I've led a strange life. I learned to quit ruling things out."

Too anxious to wait any longer, Brienne thrust a package into Jorah's arms. "I'm riding to King's Landing. Queen Sansa has held my oath fulfilled and asked me to serve as adviser for a short time on King Jon's council."

Jorah looked at the package. "Who shall I deliver this to?"

"It's yours," Brienne replied quickly. "I owe you a multitude of apologies."

Tormund nodded and urged her on, clearly proud of her for facing her fear.

Jorah considered the package, then looked up at her. "You have no reason to apologize to me. Had you shown up at Daenerys's camp, I'd have mistrusted you as well. I betrayed Robert Baratheon and fled Ned Stark. If you should have suspected anyone, it was me."

Brienne flushed.

"Open the damn package, Mormont," Tormund urged him.

"I had it made especially for you," Brienne blurted out as Jorah pulled the cover away from the belt and studied it. "It seemed befitting of the queen's consort. The buckles are silver. They're the same wolves that adorn Queen Sansa's crown and dagger and everything else. Gendry is a master at every craft, it seems."

"Thank you," Jorah replied. He looked up in surprise. "You didn't have to do this. I've never held any ill will toward you, Ser Brienne."

"Yes, well." Brienne cleared her throat. She hated to think her anxiety and sleeplessness were wasted on a faulty notion. She did something bad. She felt bad. Let the gods consider her payment enough and let her go back to her normal thoughts and feelings. "Thank you for forgiving me." Brienne offered her hand and felt her tension fizzle away when Jorah eagerly shook it. "I know she doesn't need me here with you guarding her day and night, but please see that no harm comes to Lady Sansa."

"Not a hair on her head," Jorah replied. He glanced over his shoulder to the castle. As captain of the queensguard, he knew where the queen was at all times, but Brienne strongly suspected his devotion would burn just as fiercely without the title.

Tormund adored Jorah Mormont for a multitude of reasons and wasn't afraid to show it. "You saw him when that Dornish prince prick was here," he cut in. "It looked like he was going to cut him in half just for looking at her. I would have helped." Then Tormund froze, an idea lighting up his face. "Wait. Why don't you marry her? Make big northern babies? That's what you do down here, right? A big party, a feast." He licked his lips in phantom anticipation of a rack of lamb. "You should have the wedding, Mormont."

"I am the queen's consort," Jorah chuckled. "That's all I can ever be to her, you know."

"You're right," Brienne said. "A queen needs every tool available to her, including marriage."

Jorah's face darkened. "I know," he said glumly. "I wouldn't dare strip her of the possibility."

Brienne reached out and touched his shoulder. "Yet sometimes it's the heart that knows what's best." Tormund beamed from beside her and she cursed her sentimental heart. Tears threatened to fall but she cleared her throat. "The Starks reign," she said lightly. "I don't know who Sansa would need to marry. Jon won't marry her to anyone. I don't expect any issues from across the Narrow Sea."

"She's too fancy to marry one of the Free Folk," Tormund said.

Jorah tucked the belt into a pocket in his tunic. "It would be a disservice to her. Besides, Sansa Stark doesn't need a husband. She's the queen and got to the throne without much help from anyone." Still, he looked between Brienne and Tormund. "I marry her in a heartbeat. I loved her from the moment I opened my eyes and saw her at by bedside. Killing the woman I served for years was easier knowing I was saving Sansa. I don't know if I could have done it without her."

"You wouldn't have killed her otherwise?" Tormund asked in surprise. "She killed an entire city."

Jorah sighed. "I really don't know. I kept her alive for years. I saw the devastation. But until you've seen someone walk out of the flames with dragons, you won't understand why we believed in her. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Mad Queen," he hissed. "My history is one faulty choice after the next."

"Then make the right choice," Brienne cut him off before he could continue. "She doesn't need a man, but Lady Sansa has always loved chivalrous knights and lovely stories. After all she's been through, don't you think maybe she deserves that story of her own? After all _you've _been through?"

Brienne could sense Ser Jorah's resolve shattering. He was thinking about it all wrong. Duty was one thing, but love was another. They didn't have to be entwined. The best way to serve Queen Sansa was to shut up and love her.

Shaking his head, Jorah pulled a face. "She doesn't need me. She'll hold the North until her last breath."

"I already said it! No one needs a man," Brienne agreed. She glanced a Tormund and giggled at the surprise on his face. "But they're nice to have all the same."

* * *

_Winterfell_  
_Later that Evening_

They didn't wear the traditional Westerosi white cloaks, but they were queensguards nonetheless. A small pool of Northmen eagerly volunteered for the positions when King Jon came to set the North up as its own kingdom. Sansa was flattered, but adamantly argued that with their enemies defeated, she needed no guard. Still, Jon named Jorah captain of the queensguard and left the rest in his hands.

Though she was queen, Jorah made quite clear that Sansa would have a guard whether she liked it or not, at least for the time being.

Tonight was was Podrick stationed at the end of the corridor by Sansa's – and Jorah's – chambers.

"Evenin'," Podrick greeted him. "All quiet. As usual."

Jorah studied the lad. Pod was cocky and sure, a new knight high off of his success in battle. He reminded Jorah of himself when he was that age. Plus, the boy came highly recommended by Brienne.

The queensguard at the other end of the corridor hissed. "Mormont! Are ya gonna do it?"

"I'll see you at breakfast, Tormund," Jorah called down the hall in greeting.

The humor never failed. Tormund's comment earlier in the day was right. What would Jeor Mormont think of Jorah installing one of the free folk as a queensguard? He smiled. That was one conversation he was glad not to have.

Humming an old song, Jorah pushed the door open and latched it behind him. Tormund and Brienne were right. There was no reason he shouldn't marry Sansa Stark. _Make the right choice for once._

He drew a deep breath and looked across the chambers. The plan was already derailed. Sansa was bent over the desk, furiously scratching out a letter as the candles burned low. Her lips were scrunched to the side. Jorah frowned. Sansa only chewed at her lip when she as aggravated.

"Still working at this hour?" he asked.

"I wouldn't be able to sleep, so I might as well," Sansa replied dryly as she turned back to her letter. She dipped her quill back into the ink, thought a moment, but then let it rest there. "Arya's sick with whatever plague is going around. Sam Tarly hasn't sent us a new maester and says he can't spare anyone until they're all fully trained. Jon agreed," she added bitterly. "I don't think he understands how serious it is. One of the Karstark children was near death. I think he's okay now, but how am I to know without a maester?" She ran her hands through her hair and pressed her fists to her eyes.

Jorah crossed the room and brushed her hair back from her neck and began to knead her shoulders. The muscles were rock hard. "All the worry in the world won't change a thing. Finish what you're working on. I'll draw a bath."

Sansa sighed. "I suppose you're right."

Half an hour later Sansa finally stripped her gown and joined Jorah in the giant bath. She slipped in delicately, loath to slosh water over the side.

Jorah was leaning back against the edge of the tub, ready to fall asleep. He watched the queen idly trace circles on the surface of the water, her ink-stained fingers dipping in and out of the ripples. Her hair was pinned in a pile on her head and she was careful not to get it wet. Even in such a plain moment, she was more graceful than the Maiden herself.

When she spoke, it nearly startled him. "There are no meetings tomorrow, are there? Events, feasts, visits?"

"Not one," Jorah replied. "Your day is entirely free."

"It won't stay that way." Sansa sighed again. "Tormund said I should stay in here so I don't get sick." She opened an eye and raised an eyebrow at Jorah. "Those wouldn't happen to be your orders?"

"Of course not," Jorah scoffed. "You're not a prisoner. It's but a plague. They'll come and go and take the weak and the old. There aren't many of either left after the dead came and took them all." The thought was still just as jarring. That he survived the battle of Winterfell was the one detail in his life that made him actually humor the Azor Ahai story thrust upon him. He should have died, but something kept him alive. Jorah shook the notion off. _Time to make the right choice._ "You remember you offered me lordship of Bear Island?"

Sansa sat up straighter. "Today's been bad enough. Don't tell me you want to go back to the bears." She hated surprises and didn't bother keeping the angst out of her voice. The conversation wasn't going a way she was comfortable with.

"No, but I'd take that lordship if you were still willing."

"All right," Sansa sighed. "I name you Lord Mormont of Bear Island. But why?" The queenly command snuck into her tone. "Why now? You're captain of the queensguard and a knight. If you don't mean to leave, why do you want to be a lord?"

Jorah smiled and loved her all the more. "A knight can't marry a queen."

Sansa stared at him, jaw hanging open.

Nervousness dropped into the pit of his stomach and he began to babble. "I'd die to see you marry another man, even if it meant absolute riches and health and endless goods for the realm. I don't care. No one would treat you how you deserve. No one but me. I've loved before, but never right. This is right. I love you, Sansa Stark. I'd marry you if you were a queen or a baker girl or a Wildling or one of the Unsullied."

In a warm splash of water, Sansa was in his lap, laughing and kissing him and cursing his stubbornness all at once.

* * *

_Winterfell_  
_Six Months Into King Jon's Reign _

It was weird. Was it weird? Tyrion couldn't decide. He brushed a stray hair from his black trousers and cleared his throat. Was he nervous? Maybe. It wasn't every day you went to your wife's wedding. Ex wife. Was that marriage ever annulled? Tyrion cleared his throat again. Of course it was. It was never an actual marriage. Did it matter?

Nearly everyone from King's Landing had traveled north to Winterfell for Sansa's wedding. It was a delightful trip, at least. There was much to celebrate. King's Landing was a boon of progress. If one didn't think too much about the destruction they were clearing out and instead focused on the work they were achieving, it was inspiring.

Advisers from all over the Six Kingdoms and the North visited periodically, offering their insight and rendering their aid. A few key minds were hesitant to leave the work; Samwell Tarly being one of them, but the king's order was the king's order. The work would continue without them and if there were issues, they would see to them when they return. Family was important to Jon, and he made sure everyone at least pretended to feel the same way.

"It's all we really have, in the end," Jon often said.

In Tyrion's case, all _he_ had was the work. He was Jon's hand and spent his days rebuilding what his queen and his sister and dozens of rulers and would-be usurpers before them built and destroyed. It was enough on most days. Others he longed for Jaime's ear.

The thought haunted him day in and day out. First he killed his mother, then his father, and inadvertently, his brother and sister. Even new people reminded him of them. Ser Brienne was quickly becoming one of Tyrion's favorite people, though he felt her gaze and knew she was thinking of his selfish, stupid brother.

But there seemed to be peace.

And in the North there was even more to celebrate. Winterfell looked as though it had never seen a war. The walls were rebuilt. The northmen were happy and healthy. The children were rambunctious and the animals gigantic. Tyrion knew it couldn't all be attributed to Sansa, but he liked to think she played a large part in the North's success.

Not a year past they fought for their lives here. Only months ago they rode north to make the North its own kingdom. And now life was seemingly back to normal. A wedding.

His wife's wedding, but a wedding nonetheless. He was looking forward to a nice Dornish red.


	17. The Pack Survives

_Flashback: The North_  
_Four Months Into King Jon's Reign_

Ghost snarled, the hair along his spine standing up and his ears flattened down. The sound was a violent roar in the otherwise dead silence.

Tormunud and Jorah silently drew their swords. Arya watched the wolf for a moment before drawing her dagger. The trio was ranging into the north to see what the dead left behind, if anything. They had no reason to believe there was any threat. After all, the dead were dead and anything that _was _alive out here was killed when the dead passed through. Unsatisfied with an assumption, Arya pushed the idea to range and the others agreed to accompany her.

Well beyond where the Wall once stood, they pressed on carefully. The silence was eerie but Ghost's sudden frenzy was worse. The horses whickered softly and pawed the ground behind them as the riders dismounted and moved toward the wolf.

"To me," Tormund called. "Come here, boy."

Ghost took a hesitant step back, never tearing his eyes off the grove of trees before them. The leaves didn't tremble. Branches didn't sway. Nothing called back, but Ghost renewed his growl and lifted a front paw as if pointing to the object of his hatred.

Jorah scanned the area. There was nothing but their own tracks. Last night's fierce snow storm likely swept away yesterday's tracks, but that had been twelve hours prior. Beside him Arya was cool and unworried. Perhaps she had slain the Night King and was a Faceless Man, but that didn't make her immune to death. Fear was what kept men from doing reckless things. Arya didn't seem to know fear. _That _scared him.

A soft noise pricked through the silence. Ghost's ears popped up and he listened intently. Soft whining sounds filled the air and the rangers sighed in relief.

"Sounds like a baby," Tormund said, patting Ghost on the head and pushing forward. "Good boy! You found a baby!"

"A baby?" Arya scoffed. "That's not a baby."

Tormund rolled his eyes. "A baby _wolf." _He crashed through the trees carelessly in search of it. "Where are you, baby? Your daddy's coming to save you."

Ghost was still standing frozen at the edge of the trees, snarling again. The hair on the back of Jorah's neck stood.

"Tormund!" he called. "We don't know what's in there." Jorah rushed to catch up with him. Just what he needed; a bear or something worse to take Tormund unaware and rip his arms off.

"Help me look!" Tormund sheathed his sword and put his hands on his hips as he scanned the soft leaf strewn ground. "I want that baby wolf."

Unconcerned, Arya passed them both, peering around trees and under fallen logs. Finally she found what she was looking for in the hollow of a fallen log.

"Here they are," she called triumphantly. "Pups." She knelt and pulled a pup up by its scruff. The wolf was black and brown and squeaked at her. They weren't very old; much too young to be away from their mother.

Jorah scanned the area again. No tracks. Something wasn't right. "Stark," he cautioned.

His concern fell on deaf ears. Arya was counting and petting the pups, a childlike expression of sheer joy on her round face. "Seven. We can carry them two, two, and three. I'm picking the ones I want first." She offered a cocky smile. "Being I'm a Stark and all."

Tormund dropped to his knees beside her. "Look at this little fucker!" He nuzzled his face into a black pup. "So _soft. _Mormont! You need a dog." He held up the pup and laughed at the scrunched face and wrinkled ears. The wolf opened its maw in a big yawn before curling its paws back up into his chest. _Time for a nap._ "This one looks like a little bear!" Tormund cooed in delight. "Come meet your baby wolf, Mormont! You're his daddy now."

"The mother will be somewhere close," Jorah said. "We should go."

"We found Ghost like this," Arya explained, pulling a light grey pup from the pile and offering it up to Jorah. He hesitantly took the pup and cradled it against his chest. "The mother was killed," Arya explained. "Jon and my older brother Robb and Theon brought them back. There was one for each of us." Her expression darkened. "Only Ghost is left. And Nymeria. She used to be mine, but she's wild now."

"They're too little. They'll die," Tormund said, pity dripping from his voice. "We'll take 'em back." He petted his pup between the ears. "Ghost won't mind having a little brother, will you, boy?"

Ghost had wandered into the wood and was currently sniffing at the bundle of fur in Jorah's arms. His tail flicked back and forth a few times before he suddenly bounded off through the trees, interested in a new phantom sound.

"Ghost?" Tormund called. He pulled a grimace. "Do you think he'd be jealous?"

Arya giggled. "He could help teach them how to be proper wolves." She petted the brown wolf. "Sansa would be so excited to have one for her wedding present." She cast a sly look at Jorah. "Father had to kill her wolf, Lady. Cersei made him do it. Sansa cried and cried."

Jorah raised an eyebrow. The pup in his arms squeaked and twisted so that its front legs dangled over his forearm. He wanted to see what was going on. Jorah scratched the pup on the chest and sighed. "It _is _unlikely a mother would leave the young."

"Knew that would convince you," Arya replied triumphantly. She petted each of the remaining wolves in their nest. "We should go. They look hungry." She tucked a pup into her tunic. Its furry head popped out under her chin. She scooped another up in her arms. "We'll decide whose is whose at the castle."

Nearby, Ghost whined a low, mournful sound. It reminded Jorah of the desperate howl that filled the air when Drogon pawed at Daenerys's dead body. He pushed the image from his mind.

"Ghost!" Tormund let the pups back down onto the ground and followed Ghost's whines. Jorah did the same.

Ghost was sniffling and digging frantically at a fallen tree. Jorah assumed it was a casualty of the previous night's storm. The winds blew mercilessly and a dead tree like that would stand no chance. A few more steps revealed Ghost was digging to free some carcass from beneath the tree. But the mass of grey-brown fur twitched and Jorah realized in regret that it was the pups' mother.

Arya caught up with them and gasped. "It's Nymeria!" She moved toward the direwolf crushed beneath the branches, but Jorah caught her by the sleeve.

"Don't," he urged her. "She's wild now. Even if she remembers you, she's hurt and scared and we have her pups."

"I'm a wolf," Arya replied, shrugging furiously out of his grasp.

Jorah reached out and caught her again. "I'm a bear but I wouldn't try to communicate with one," he hissed. "I'll not drag your body back home."

Arya glared at him until he gritted his teeth and released her. "I left her once. I won't do it again."

Tormund watched in awe as Arya gently nudged Ghost out of the way and knelt at the injured wolf's snout. She whispered softly and patted the wolf's head and ears. Nymeria whimpered and moved her head slightly. Jorah swore there were understanding and familiarity in the wolf's eyes. Arya sniffled and looked desperately back to her companions.

"Maybe we can save her. Set the bones." Tormund didn't look hopeful.

Jorah knelt at Arya's side. "May I?"

She nodded. "I… I don't know much about animals. Can… can we help her?"

The pain in her face made Jorah's stomach flop. Arya was fierce and quick to argue or draw a sword. She reminded him of all of his cousins back on Bear Island during his youth. Seeing her now, utterly heartbroken at the sight of the wolf, wounded him. He nodded and put a hand on her shoulder. "I wouldn't keep much hope. It's been a long night," Jorah said.

He spoke softly to the wolf and moved gently. He gingerly pulled the lips back from the massive teeth. The wolf's gums were nearly white. Nymeria didn't even react; no snarl, no twitch of the lip of snap of the jaw. Jorah frowned. On the other side of the log, her hind legs were smashed and bent in unnatural angles. There was no telling how she was alive with the brunt of the weight crushing her spine. "I'm sorry," Jorah said, barely able to look to Arya. "She wouldn't survive the trip back."

Arya nodded and sniffled again. "I'm sorry, girl. We'll take care of your babies. I'll keep them safe this time." Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Jorah assumed she wasn't just crying for her wolf, but everyone who had been lost that the wolf reminded her of.

She took a few more moments before she pressed a kiss to Nymeria's snout. "You're a good girl."

Jorah helped her to her feet and nodded to Tormund.

Tormund drew his sword. "The best thing to do is to stop the hurt. She'll thank you for it. You're a good master."

* * *

_Winterfell_

It was the end of the fourth day when Sansa spotted three figures on horseback riding from the north.

She sighed in relief. She couldn't help it. Worry was second nature to her now. As a child she was dreamy and carefree, but now she was a woman who knew better. The dead were dead but that didn't mean the true north was safe. Sometimes she wondered if humans were the worst evil.

The queensguard at the wall behind her chuckled as the riders drew near. "I'm glad to see Tormund return," Pod said cheerily as the gate guards pulled the iron bars up and the horses trotted in. The riders looked healthy and well. "Brienne would have had my head if he didn't. I'm surprised he didn't go to King's Landing with her."

"Too far south," Sansa smiled. "Don't worry. I don't think he'd let anything keep him away from her." She turned back to the riders. The same could be said about her knight. There was enough business during the days to keep her busy, but nights left her lonely. She'd grown used to his gentle touch and soothing voice. She read by candlelight and fell asleep feeling like something was missing.

And here he was, trotting through the courtyard on his mount.

"Your Grace," Jorah greeted her, still astride. He beamed down at her, a strange glint in his eyes she'd never seen before. "Would you give me a hand?"

Pod excused himself and Sansa stared up at Jorah, puzzled. "Of course."

Jorah handed her a bundle of cloth. She nearly dropped it when it squirmed in her hand. Throwing back the cloth, Sansa nearly wept in joy. Inside, a pair of direwolf pups sniffled at her hands and licked her fingers.

Jorah's feet hit the courtyard and he handed the reins to a stable hand. "They're yours," he announced. "Arya thought you'd like the brown the best. Tormund decided the black one looked like a bear, so that's how you ended up with that one, too."

Sansa blinked in wonder, unable to keep happy tears from falling. "It's just like when we found Lady! I never thought I'd see another wolf besides Ghost again." She stroked the fur and marveled at the tiny canine faces. They were even younger than the first litter of direwolves to come home to Winterfell.

"There are five more," Jorah said. He lifted the black out of her arms and let her fully embrace the brown. "The mother was Arya's wolf. She's keeping three and Tormund has the other two. I'm sure the pack will have the run of the castle together, though."

Arya was already sprawled on the ground, playing with three bundles of grey fur. Behind her, Tormund was carrying two pups of his own, one in each crook of his arm.

"Thank you," Sansa said. "All I wanted was for you to come home quickly. I didn't expect you'd bring a pack of wolves with you." She tucked her face into the crook of his neck and nestled in for an embrace. The wolf pups in their arms nipped and batted at each other and Sansa laughed in delight.

"I'm glad to see you smile," Jorah said. "I never stopped thinking of you."

Sansa closed her eyes and pressed the wolf against her chest. A pack of direwolves in Winterfell again. The Stark children in Winterfell again. Jon finally found his rightful place. Life had a way of sorting itself out.


	18. Surprises

_Six Months Into King Jon's Reign_  
_Winterfell_  
_Queen Sansa's Wedding_

The first of the wedding guests were beginning to arrive in Winterfell.

Queen Sansa watched from her window briefly before flitting across the room and finishing dressing. Excitement pulsed from her. Though it might be her third wedding, it was the first she looked forward to with eager anticipation.

The feasts for each night were set. The young maids had fires going in the guest rooms. The hunters brought in fresh furs to furnish the beds and new Dornish rugs decorated common rooms. Everything was clean and warm and inviting. Winterfell was as it had always been, but with comfortable updates. Something old, something new.

Sansa had only just finished her dress. It was a brilliant silver with a weirwood leaf detail at the hem. She incorporated details upon details, all for herself, but some that perhaps a keen eye would see. Scales for House Tully. Fur for House Stark. A green accent here and there for House Mormont. Wolf accents for her fallen brothers. She was thrilled to wear it, but that would wait for tomorrow.

Tonight's gown was a deep navy and silver that reminded her of the night sky. She studied her reflection. _My, how life changed._ She put on her crown for good measure. _There. Perfect._

The door swung open. Jorah appeared in the mirror behind her, decked out in grey and green, the perfect picture of a northern lord. Sansa beamed. Jorah hated wearing the finery of a lord, preferring a plain tunic. It always took her by surprise to see him in such splendor. A fine green cloak at his shoulders finished the lordly look. It was the color of House Mormont and reminded Sansa of the deep greens of the pine trees on Bear Island. She'd only been there once as a child, but she still remembered the smell of the sea and soft bed of pine needles. Sometimes she swore she could smell it on Jorah.

Lord Mormont of Bear Island. A northerner true and noble. Her heart warmed at the sight of him. If only the fates had been different, perhaps he could have protected her from the horrors of her life. There was nothing Jorah wouldn't do for Sansa and she had never felt more at ease.

"How do I look?" Jorah grumbled. "Tyrion will never let me hear the end of it if I don't look the proper lord." He straightened the silver bear pin at his chest. "I've gathered that he held out hope that you would rekindle your marriage vows once the dust settled."

Sansa scoffed and stared at their reflections in the mirror. "Tyrion is a good man but I could never marry a Lannister. Willingly," she added.

The black wolf pup that followed Jorah everywhere skittered into the room, relieved to find Jorah. It padded over to his feet and stretched up, its tiny paws resting on his knee. The wolf cried for his attention. "Quit, wolf," he warned the pup. "You're supposed to be on your best behavior."

The pup sat with a plop and panted up at him. Sansa's wolf, graceful and calm Florian, was napping amidst the furs on the bed.

"'Wolf,'" she scoffed. "He needs a name!"

"He was supposed to be yours," Jorah replied, looking down at the pup fondly. The roly-poly layers of skin and fat and fur made the beast look like a chubby little bear. He bent and picked up the pup. "They'll write songs about you, you know. The queen and her wolves."

Sansa petted the black wolf and shrugged. "Maybe they'll write a song about the wolf and the bear."

* * *

Tyrion stood in the courtyard anxiously. Why was he nervous? He was visiting old friends. He supposed any man would be a little nervous if his wife was marrying his former kidnapper.

He scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt and traced a pattern. Anything to occupy his racing thoughts.

The rest of the party was casual as could be. Brienne and Samwell Tarly were chatting. Gilly was minding Little Sam and Jonna, the new Tarly daughter. Bronn was already off looking for a maid, not willing to wait for the royal reception. He claimed it didn't matter because Jon was his king and Jon didn't give a flying fuck. Tyrion smiled. Some things never changed. King Jon hadn't arrived yet. He preferred to travel alone and be broody and mysterious. Again, some things never changed, Tyrion thought.

"About time you fuckers got here!"

Tormund Giantsbane strolled into the courtyard. Three wolves trotted after him: Ghost and two grey pups.

"What are those? It's a madhouse here," Tyrion scoffed.

Tormund's face lit up at the sight of Brienne and he cheerfully ran to embrace her. She held him just as tightly. "Look!" Tormund cheered, tearing himself away and gesturing to the wolf pups. "Surprise! I caught them for you." The pups wrestled in the dirt, their fur turning from grey to brown in no time. "There's a whole pack of 'em. Wolves everywhere."

"Perhaps I shouldn't leave Winterfell any more," Brienne muttered before snapping back to attention when Sansa appeared.

The queen smiled warmly at her friends. "Welcome back to Winterfell."

Tyrion bowed formally, then felt his jaw drop at the sight of Jorah. "Mormont!" he exclaimed. "And to think I knew you when you were a slave. Look at you. Captain of the queensguard, queen consort, a proper lord."

Sansa looked surprised. "A slave?"

Beside her, Jorah barely batted an eye. "There are few roles I haven't served in this life."

"And now King Jorah," Sam breathed dreamily. "I saved the king's life! Twice!" He beamed at Gilly, his eyebrows disappearing into his dark hair. "If that's not worthy of a mention in a book, I don't know what is!"

"I won't be king," Jorah replied roughly. "Marrying the queen is even too much for a man of my station."

Sam's face fell tremendously. "Oh. Well, then. There's always plenty more time to perform medical feats that will earn me a mention in the retelling of history. Perhaps Jon will let me save his life some time."

"Maybe," Gilly nodded seriously.

"Where is Jon?" Sansa asked.

Davos cleared his throat. "He decided to travel separately, Your Grace. I expect he should be arriving any moment now."

Half an hour later, villagers screamed and ran for cover; their cries of horror cutting through the small talk.

Tyrion looked not to the sky, but to the queen and her soon-to-be husband. Neither of them looked disturbed in the slightest as Drogon soared over the castle before coasting down to the ground, his massive wings kicking up a breeze that cast dirt and pebbles everywhere.

Davos beamed. "Ah. That's him."

"You can't be serious," Sansa said, casting Tyrion a sidelong look. "He's riding the dragon now?"

Tyrion patted her hand. "Oh, quite serious. And the surprises aren't stopping there." He chuckled. No. If there was one thing he'd learned in life, it was certainly that the surprises never stopped coming.


	19. Life

_Six Months Into King Jon's Reign_  
_Winterfell_  
_Queen Sansa's Wedding_

The first time Jorah saw Daenerys ride Drogon, he was certain he'd gone mad. Too many years in the sun. Too many blows to the head in battle. Yet there she was, a Targaryen flying to safety on a dragon, flying to battle on a dragon, flying for fun on a dragon.

Now Drogon was before him again, shaking off after a long flight. Every time Jorah saw the dragon it was larger and larger. This was no exception, and the other Northerners realized it as well. Everyone but the southerners, Sansa, and him stumbled back against the courtyard walls or into the safety of the castle.

Drogon bowed slightly, offering safe dismount to his ride. Jorah straightened and held his breath. The heavy boots thudding to the ground sent an involuntary shock through him, followed by a wave of foolishness. What, had he expected to see silver hair? Of course not. Daenerys Targaryen was dead. Her heart blood poured over his fingers and her weight went slack on his sword.

She would never fly a dragon or fight a battle or giggle with Missandei ever again. He killed her. The woman he carried as she was losing her baby. The woman who eagerly asked him to translate Dothraki so she could learn. The woman who he pulled from death's grasp over and over.

Jorah cleared his throat.

Sansa squeezed his hand. "You can't think about it," she said softly. "You can't change the past. Or your destiny, Ser Ahai." She offered a small smile. "I know you miss her."

The warmth in her eyes gave him reassurance. He'd never seen warmth in Daenerys's face. Her smile never quite reached her eyes, even when she thanked him for saving her life or the lives of the dragons. Jorah didn't want to cloud her memory with resentment, but suddenly it was everywhere. The thought of her rise to power and his inability to see her rising madness infuriated him. He could have stopped it at her wedding to Drogo. The heartache, sleepless nights, greyscale – none of it had to happen. He could have been home in Westeros.

But Jorah knew that wasn't true. If Bran Stark said he was Azor Ahai, there wasn't much good arguing against it. He was Azor Ahai and he had to love Daenerys and kill her.

Sansa squeezed his hand again, pulling him back to the present. Jorah touched her face. "Destiny has been kind to me, after all. Far kinder than I deserve."

Beside them, Tyrion cleared his throat. "The king looks to be in a fowl mood. Best not mention any of the business from King's Landing. On top of everything there has of late been a plague in Flea Bottom, or what's left of it."

Davos quickly added, "None of us have been exposed, Your Grace. You're in no danger."

"Do the people need a maester?" Sansa's head whipped to Sam Tarly. "Why have you come all this way if there's a plague?"

Sam held up a hand. "I'm not the only maester left. And I'm here to install your new maester, as well. After the celebrations, of course," he added. Beside him, Gilly nodded proudly.

The party straightened as Jon reached them. Though he was still very much Jon Snow, having a title and crown attached to a person made them inherently powerful and intimidating. Even Arya regarded him with stoic anticipation.

"What would Father say if he would see us now?" Sansa greeted him.

"He'd be proud," Jon replied. "You were always meant to be a queen." He looked over the small gathering of northerners who had crept back out into the courtyard. "So my sister's getting married."

"I've been married," Sansa replied distractedly. She nodded toward the dragon. "I meant more _that. _I have no idea what Father would say to see you fly here on a dragon. I guess he knew you were half Targaryen._"_

Drogon was purring contentedly behind him, perched on the newly constructed walls of Winterfell. The northerners cowered behind one another, eager to take a look but not too eager to be without a shield before them.

Jorah studied Jon. He looked the same as always, if not a bit more exhausted and out of sorts. They were both simple northerners thrust into extraordinary lives. How different their lives would have been were they not winners in the game of thrones.

The wind stirred Jon's fur at his shoulder. The cape didn't flap in the wind, but the material on his shoulder stirred. Jorah squinted and looked closer. There was something _in _his cloak. The king idly patted the lump that had formed.

"Is that what I think it is?" Jorah asked.

Jon locked eyes with him for a moment. "They remind me of her every day but I – I couldn't leave them behind."

Sansa squinted at Jon and back at Jorah. "What is it?"

Tyrion cleared his throat and bounced back on his heels. "That's the surprise I mentioned. _Surprise._"

Jon pulled a blue and violent dragon out of the fur of his cloak and held her in his hand. Another dragon scuttled free of his tunic, popping out just under his chin. It was silver and blue, a snowy beauty. "I couldn't leave them," he repeated apologetically. "They're babies."

The King's Landing party looked on in adoration as the dragons snapped at each other on Jon's shoulder. The northerners shied away once again.

"How?" Jorah asked, stepping forward and reaching for the pups.

The blue and purple dragon quickly scuttled up Jorah's arm and perched on his bicep, looking from face to face. Steam came from the dragon's nostrils as it scrutinized Sansa. The queen took an indignant step back but Jorah only chuckled.

"The eggs were in the wreckage, down in the catacombs," Jon explained, taking the silver dragon and offering it to Sansa. "The eggs were hot when I found them, like they'd been sitting in a fire. Now here they are. Two females."

Sansa hesitantly reached out and let the dragon snuffle her fingers. Both parties were hesitant and drew back more than once. Impatient, Jon dumped the pup into her hand. The dragon squawked and flapped its wings as it whipped its head backward, growling as menacingly as it could manage at Jon.

She looked nervously to Jorah, but he nodded and offered her a crooked grin.

_Northerners and dragons, _Jorah mused. _What a pairing. _It was unnatural, but with everything they'd lived through lately, he simply wrote it off as a fact of life now. The world was full of mystery and curiosities.

"I don't know how old they are," Jon admitted. "They must be from when the last Targaryens ruled."

Jorah traced his fingers back and forth over the tiny blue dragon's scaly snout. It began to sing.

Jon stared. "They haven't done that before." He looked back at Drogon, who was curled up outside the gate. "Does he do that, too?"

"He used to," Jorah replied. "It's been some time since I spent any length of time with him. I'd be happy to tell you everything I know about raising dragons. I was their guardian more often than I expected to be."

The dragon continued to sing. Her sister was curled up in Sansa's hands, neither of them too willing to make any fast moves. Still, the white dragon began to sing, her notes joining the blue's to make an eerie harmony.

"Dragon song," Bran mused. "I've not heard that in some years."

Arya rolled her eyes. "You've never actually heard it, stupid." She peered at the dragons, then at Jon. "So you really are a Targaryen. That's too bad." She whistled and a crash of wolf pups came scuttling out of the hall where the master of hounds had been feeding them.

Jonquil wandered out and sat at Sansa's side, snuffling up toward the dragon pup suspiciously. Where his pup was, Jorah didn't dare wonder. Probably tearing up someone's bedding or terrorizing a Queensguard's cloak. The little wolf looked like a bear and behaved like a cub, too.

"And where's Ghost?" Jon asked, taking inventory of the new pups. "Are these his?"

"No. They're Nymeria's pups. There's a whole pack," Arya interrupted excitedly. "You can have one, if you wanted."

Jon shook his head. "I've got my hands full with six kingdoms and three dragons. Wolves belong in Winterfell."

"So you really are a Targaryen," Sansa muttered, echoing Arya's sentiment. "I can't believe you have dragons." She gingerly stroked the dragon's snout and allowed Arya to do the same.

"Are there any other surprises?" Jon asked wryly.

Jorah touched the small of Sansa's back. There would be no better time. He extended his hand and the white dragon scurried from her grasp and up his arm.

Sansa cleared her throat. "There will be a new wolf in Winterfell come next year," she announced casually. Her hand traced idly across her stomach. "An heir to Winterfell."

Jorah glanced from face to face. His stomach flopped anxiously. What would they say? They traveled here for their wedding, sure, but did they truly approve of such a match? A lowly knight and a queen. Jorah's heart thudded in his ears. The future ruler of the north was going to be half a Mormont. That wasn't a house befit a Stark. He was a fool and they'd all tell him so. He looked back at Sansa, but her expression was cool and pleased.

"You're pregnant?" Jon blurted.

Excited chatter broke out and Jorah realized he'd been holding his breath.

Soon there were questions and congratulations being hurtled this way and that. People called Jorah's name, clapped his back, and demanded drinks in his honor. The dragons flew the short distance to Jon, disturbed by the sudden commotion.

"And here I thought I would have one last chance to steal Queen Sansa away to give our marriage one last shot," Tyrion joked half-heartedly. "I see that is no longer an option."

Jorah didn't get a chance to reply. Brienne crushed him in a hug and Tormund crushed them _both _in his wide grasp.

Laughing, Jorah looked through the chaos at his bride. Sansa was beaming, her cheeks a lovely pink and her eyes bright. She caught his arm and leaned against him, happily answering questions as she stroked his hand.

* * *

_Seven Years Into Queen Sansa's Reign  
Winterfell_

Sansa was fast asleep, sleeping like an angel with the moonlight shining in on her milky skin and ruby hair. Jorah was glad to see it. The queen didn't usually sleep well following a trying day.

And what a trying day it had been. A kitchen maid died in childbirth, taking the baby with her. The father, a young smith, jumped from the tallest tower to join them in death. The maester blamed himself, had a nervous breakdown and vowed to leave his post. His pregnant wife fell into a weeping fit, certain she would die, too.

The commotion was calmed down, but that was just the sort of thing that wore on Sansa. The unavoidable tragedy that befell her people was one enemy she could not vanquish and it caused her to weep when she thought no one was looking.

She was a good queen, and kind. The Starks were beloved, and the world was prospering under their rule. Queen Sansa ruled the North. King Jon reigned over the Six Kingdoms with his Wildling wife. Arya sailed West and ruled the seas, and Bran ruled the past. Jorah was sure Essos would fall in line soon enough. Sansa threatened to use his connections there and put him in charge, but he adamantly refused. He'd traveled enough. His place was in the North. Jorah gave counsel when Sansa asked, served as her main queensguard, and wrangled their royal children.

The commotion of the day kept Jorah awake. He read for some time, but now he fancied a walk in the fresh snow. The summer had been long, even for Winterfell standards. Snowflakes finally swirled from above and he longed for the fresh air in his lungs.

He gently let the bedroom door shut behind him and made his way through the castle. A streak of black caught his eye as he turned the corner near the kitchen.

"You're supposed to be in bed," Jorah said in a low voice.

A young girl with a messy red braid and long face jumped, then paused without turning around. Taeori of Houses Stark and Mormont, First of Her Name, Heir to the North and Princess of Winterfell.

The young princess was as stubborn as they came. Jorah knew he shouldn't be surprised. Houses Stark and Mormont weren't known for their passiveness. Princess Taeori already had a grasp on how things worked and how to get things done. Fortunately for his and Sansa's sanity, their younger daughter Della had shown very little interest in pushing boundaries thus far.

The black direwolf he rescued those years ago was at Taeori's side. "Bear wanted a drink of water," the child said. Turning slowly, she crossed her arms over her chest as she faced her father. "He's thirsty."

"I see." Jorah leaned against the wall and smirked. "Is that why you've woken Renly?"

A tall, gangly boy stepped out from behind a tapestry. "Yes, my lord. Father said I'm supposed to make sure the princess doesn't get in any trouble. I'm defending her. That's all."

"I don't need defending," Taeori scoffed. "I have Bear."

Brienne and Tormund's son was Taeori's fast friend and where you found one, you found the other, usually abetting in some petty trouble. They were the same age and had been nearly inseparable since they learned to walk. Jorah was fairly certain if they continued to be thick as thieves, they'd marry young. Tormund often mentioned it, dreamily fantasizing about the day his son sat on a Westerosi throne.

The children continued to bicker until Jorah cleared his throat. Trying not to smile, he nodded. "Back to bed, Renly. I'll make sure Bear gets his drink."

The boy obediently turned on heel and marched back down the hall. Jorah continued toward the kitchen. Taeori pretended she was unaccompanied until Jorah spoke again. "Where were you really going?"

She pursed her lips. "A drink for Bear."

"Try again."

The girl's firm expression broke into a series of giggles. "Bear wanted one of the lemon tarts. He didn't get any at dinner."

Jorah scooped his daughter into his arms. "Funny you say that. I know a princess whose favorite treat is a lemon tart. Too bad Bear and I are going to eat the rest of them."

Taeori giggled and shook her head. "No! It was me! I wanted one! Please! Don't eat them all!"

"A lemon tart, then bed."

Taeori nodded. "Don't tell Mother. I know I'm supposed to be good because I'll be the queen someday."

Jorah nodded and took a beat to be thankful for his extraordinary life. "Yes, Princess. Our little secret."


End file.
